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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  W*ST  WAIN  ST  «IT 

WiBSTKR,)'.       145W 

(716)872-4S03 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  MIcroreproductlons  /  institut  canadien  de  microreproductlons  historiques 


Tachnical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/IMotes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibiiographicaily  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagte 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pelliculte 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gAographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


FT"/ Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
I  ^    Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


D 
D 


D 


Boi^nd  with  other  material/ 
Relii  avec  d'autres  documents 


Tight  binding  may  cau&r:)  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  4tA  filmies. 


r~V  Additional  comments:/ 

Ljd    Commentaires  suppl6mentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  le  meillsur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  una 
modification  dans  la  mithode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dessous. 


r—\   Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagies 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  dicolordes,  tacheties  ou  piqudes 


I — I   Pages  damaged/ 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

rri/Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 


□   Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtach6es 

I    T/Showthrough/ 
LLd   Transparence 

I      I   Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  in6gale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 


D 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


r~V^ Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
Li^   slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  filmies  A  nouveau  de  fapon  & 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Irregular  pagination  :  xvi,  [191-298  p.  Wrinkled  pages  may  film  slightly  out  of  focus. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

XX 

V 

12X 


1IX 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  ffilmsd  h«r«  has  b««n  r«produc«d  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

Vancouver  Public  Library 


L'axamplaira  film4  fut  raproduit  grica  A  la 
gAnArositA  da: 

Vancouver  Public  Library 


Tha  imagas  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  bast  quality 
possibia  considaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacifications. 


Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  *t*  raproduitas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin.  compta  tanu  da  ia  condition  at 
da  la  nattatA  da  I'axamplaira  film*,  at  an 
conformity  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 


Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covars  ara  f  ilmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
the  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impras- 
sion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copias  ara  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimAe  sont  filmAs  en  commen^ant 
par  la  premier  plat  at  un  terminant  soit  par  la 
darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  les  autras  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmte  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  at  en  terminant  par 
la  derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol   -»-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END  "I, 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
derniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN  ". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  tc^  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  ai  j  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmis  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

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ROMANCE  OF  INDIAN  LIFE. 


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SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  IRIS,   AN  ILLUMINATED   SOUVENIR. 


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PHILADELPHIA: 
LIPPINCOTT,   GRAMBO  &  CO. 

1868. 


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Kntored,  according  to  Act  of  Congregg,  In  the  year  1852, 

UV    l.lt'1'INOOTT,    ORAMIIO   A   00., 

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The  attractive  and  beautiful  stories  of  Indian  Life,  contained  in 
this  elegantly  illustrated  volume,  were  written  by  the  author  during 
a  residence  with  her  husband,  Captain  Eastman,  of  over  seven 
years,  on  our  northwestern  frontier,  and  in  immediate  contact  with 
the  red  man  of  the  forest.  They  are  not,  therefore,  mere  ideal 
pictures,  but  Indian  romances,  in  the  strictest  sense ;  giving  us,  as 
they  do,  in  skilfully-wrought  fictions,  glimpses  of  aboriginal  life  in 
its  deeply  interesting  phases, — a  life  fast  dying  out,  and  soon  to  fail 
forever  in  the  suffocating  atmosphere  of  encroaching  civilization. 
They  possess,  in  consequence,  an  intrinsic  value,  for  tjey  picture 
the  Indian  in  all  the  varied  circumstances  of  his  wild  and  wander- 
ing life,  and  show  him  as  influenced  by  the  varied  passions  of  love, 
joy,  grief,  anger,  jealousy,  and  revenge.  In  these  sketches,  Mrs. 
Eastman  has  performed  a  good  service.  They  will  be  referred  to 
hereafter,  when  opportunities  of  personal  observation  become  few  or 
altogether  impossible,  as  accurate  delineations  of  Indian  customs, 
superstitions,  and  social  habits, — none  the  less  true  because  the 
writer  has  chosen  to  weave  them  into  a  web  of  romance. 

79216 


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CONTENTS 


PROEM. 

THE  LANDING  OF  WILLIAM  PENN.      - 
DIFFERENT  IMPRESSIONS.      -  .  .  - 

WE-IIAR-KA,  OR  THE  RIVAL  CLANS.    - 
TUB  LAUGHING  WATERS.       .  .  -  . 

0-KO-PEE,  A  HUNTER  OF  THE  SIOUX. 
CHEQUERED  CLOUD,  THE  AGED  SIOUX  WOMAN. 

\  FIRE-FACE. 

DEATH-SONG  OF  AN  INDIAN  PRISONER.  - 
THE  FALSE  ALARM.  .... 

INDIAN  COURTSHIP. 

THE  SACRIFICE. 

AN  INDIAN  LULLABY.  .  .  .  . 

SOUNDING  WIND,  THE  CHIPPEWAY  BRAVE. 

AN  INDIAN  BALLAD. 

OLD  JOHN,  THE  MEDICIS^-MAN. 

A  REMONSTRANCE. 

A  FINE  ART  DISREGARDED. 

MISSION  CHURCH  OF  SAN  30Sf:.      - 

HAWKING. 

HILLSIDE  COTTAGE. 

SU>'SET  ON  THE  DELAWARE.     - 

FAITH,  HOPE,  AND  CHARITY. 

CASTLE-BUILDING. 

THE  LOVER'S  LEAP,  OR  WENONA'S  ROCK. 

THE  INDIAN  MOTHER.       .... 

THE  WOOD  SPIRITS  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

ALICE  HILL. 


AutnoK. 
SARAH*  ROBERTS. 
THE  2DIT0R. 
FREDRIKA  BREMER.  • 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.     • 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.     - 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.     • 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.     - 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.     ■ 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.     • 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 
MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.    - 
ELIZA  L.  SPROAT. 
ELIZABETH  WETHERELL. 

MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 

EDITH  MAY. 

MRS.  JULIA  C.  R.  DORR. 

J.  I.  PEASE.  - 

S.  A.  H.     • 

JAMES  T.  MITCHELL.       - 

MRa  MARY  EASTMAN. 

MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN.     - 

MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 

MRS.  M.  E.  W.  ALEXANDER 


I'AOB 
19 

■Jl 

26 


SO 

84 

91 

95 
101 
104 

lis 

117 

124 

127 

136 

139 

151 

165 

156 

177 

17S 

130 

185 

191 

194 

190 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


RUDJtXT. 

DR.  VANDOUSKN  AND  TIIK  YOUNQ  WIDOW. 
A  CKNOTAPII.    A  IIALLAD  OF  NATUAN  IIALK. 

TUB  DKEAMKK. 

WHITK  MOON  AND  FIERY  MAN. 

THE  RAIN-DKOP. 

A  PLEA  FOR  A  CHOICE  PICTURE.  - 

LOST  AND  WON. 

THE  MISTRUSTED  GUIDE.       - 

A  NIOIIT  IN  NAKARETH.  .... 

TEARS. 

INCONSTANCY.  

CROSSING  TUK  TIDE.     .... 


Al'Tlllilt. 

PAOK 

ANN  E.  PORTER. 

•      20M 

ERASTU8  W.  ELLSWORTH. 

•225 

MARY  E,  HEWITT. 

-      244 

MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 

24r> 

MISS  E.  W.  BARNES.   . 

.     270 

MISS  L.  S.  HALL.    • 

279 

CAROLINE  EUSTIS.       - 

-     2S1 

A  WESTERN  MISSIONARY. 

2K;i 

MARY  YOUNG.    - 

-       2'.M) 

CHARLES  D.  OARDETTK,  M.D. 

2'.i:; 

E.  M.          .           •           .           - 

•       Lit,'. 

MISS  PIKEME  CAREY. 

2»7 

L 


I  I'.IP 


THE  IRIS. 


PEOEM. 


BY   8ABAH   ROBERTS. 


They  have  christened  me  Iris;  and  why?  oh,  why? 

Because,  like  the  rainbow  so  bright, 
I  bring  my  own  welcome,  and  tell  my  own  tale, 

And  am  hailed  by  all  hearts  with  delight : 
And  this,  this  is  why 
I  am  named  for  the  beautiful  bow  in  the  sky. 

The  rainbow,  it  cometh  'mid  sunlight  and  tears, — 

The  tears  it.  SQQucUaseth  awaj'^; 
I  banish  all  ^^&'f©i>*<h6  5i(5a;r-tUat  is  passed, 
And'ltoe  futurfe-  ^n:'sunliglit  uiTav : 
:  : ;  : ; ; ;.  Anji. thi.«f,  tjh^e,  i^ . why : 
I  am  named  for  the  beautiful  bovr  in  the  sky. 

The  rainbow,  it  telleth  of  promise  and  love, 
Of  hope,  with  its  gay,  golden  wing ; 


20 


THE    IRIS. 


It  ■whispers  of  peacefiilness,  purity,  heaven, — 
Of  these  lofty  themeH  do  I  sing : 
And  this,  this  is  why 
I  am  named  for  the  beautiful  bow  in  the  sky. 


The  rainbow  is  painted  in  colours  most  fair, 
By  the  hand  of  ilie  Father  of  love  ; 

So  the  genius  and  talent  my  pages  bespeak. 
Are  inspired  by  the  Great  Mind  above  : 
And  this,  this  is  why 

I  am  named  for  the  beautiful  l)ow  in  the  sky. 


-1 


I 


THE  LANDING  OF  WlLLIAxM  PENN. 


BY    THE    G  I)  1  T  <>  R. 


(Soo  the  Fronti8pk>cv.) 


S 


The  first  landing  of  William  Penn  at  Newcastlo.  in  1G82, 
is  one  of  those  striking  historical  events  that  are  peculiarly 
suited  for  pictorial  illustration.  The  late  Mr.  Duponceau,  in 
one  of  his  discourses,  first  suggested  the  idea  of  makiu']!;  it 
the  subject  of  an  historical  painting.  This  idea  h  seized 
wit  1 1  avidity  by  Mr.  Dixon,  the  most  recent  biographer  of 
the  great  Quaker,  and  the  circumstances  of  the  landing  are 
given  accordingly,  with  much  minuteness.  The  artist  who 
designed  the  picture  that  forms  the  frontispiece  to  the  pre- 
sent volume  has  had  this  description  in  view.  I  cannot 
do  better,  therefore,  than  to  quote  the  words  of  Mr.  Dixon 
as  the  best  possible  commentary  upon  the  picture. 

"On  the  27th  of  October,  nine  weeks  after  the  departure 
from  Deal,  the  Welconie  moored  off  Newcastle,  in  the  terri- 
tories lately  ceded  by  the  Duke  of  York,  and  William  Penn 
first  set  foot  in  the  New  World.*    His  landing  made  a 

*  "Watson,  16;  Day,  299.  The  landing  of  Penn  in  America  is  com- 
memorated on  the  24th  of  Optober,  that  being  the  date  given  by  Clarkson ; 
but  the  diligent  antiquary,  Mr.  J.  F.  Watson,  has  found  in  the  records  of 
Newcastle  the  original  entry  of  his  arrival. 


^ 


22 


THE    IRIS. 


general  holiday  in  the  town ;  young  and  old,  Welsh,  Dutch, 
English,  Swedes,  and  Germans,  crowded  down  to  the  land- 
ing-place, each  eager  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  great  man 
who  had  come  amongst  them,  less  as  their  lord  and  governor 
than  as  their  friend.  In  the  centre  of  the  foreground,  only 
distinguished  from  the  few  companions  of  his  voyage  who 
have  yet  landed,  by  the  nobleness  of  his  mien,  and  a  light 
blue  silken  sash  tied  round  his  waist,  stands  William  Penn ; 
erect  in  stature,  every  motion  indicating  courtly  grace,  his 
countenance  lighted  up  with  hope  and  honest  pride, — in 
every  limb  and  feature  the  expression  of  a  serene  and  manly 
beauty."'  The  young  officer  before  him,  dressed  in  the  gay 
costume  of  the  English  service,  is  his  lieutenant,  Markham, 
come  to  welcome  his  relative  to  the  new  land,  and  to  give  an 
account  of  his  own  stewardship.  On  the  right  stand  the 
chief  settlers  of  the  district,  arrayed  in  their  national  cos- 
tumes, the  light  hair  and  quick  eye  of  the  Swede  finding  a 
good  foil  in  the  stolid  look  of  the  heavy  Dutchman,  who 
doffs  his  cap,  but  doubts  whether  he  shall  take  the  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  even  to  say  welcome  to  the  new  governor.  A 
little  apart,  as  if  studying  with  the  intenbo  eagerness  of  In- 
dian skill  the  physiognomy  of  the  ruler  who  has  come  with 
his  children  to  occuj)y  their  hunting-grounds,  stands  the  wise 
and  noble  leader  of  the  Red  Men,  Taminent,  and  a  party  of 
the  Lenni  Lenape  in  their  picturesque  paints  and  costume. 
Behind  the  central  figure  are  grouped  the  principal  compa- 
nions of  his  voyage ;  and  on  the  dancing  waters  of  the  Dela- 
ware rides  the  stately  ship,  while  between  her  and  the  shore 

*  "The  portrait  by  West  is  I'tterly  spurious  and  unlike.   Granville  Penn, 

MSS." 


uwjIP.iajjLliilD/iij  ...1 11,  infill      1 1 


THE    LANDING    OF    WILLIAM    PENN. 


23 


a  multitude  of  light  canoes  dart  to  and  fro,  bringing  the  pas- 
Hcngers  and  merchandise  to  land.  Part  of  the  background 
whowH  an  irregular  line  of  streets  and  houses,  the  latter  with 
the  pointed  roofs  and  fantastic  gables  which  still  delight  the 
artist's  eye  in  the  streets  of  Ley  den  or  Rotterdam;  and 
further  on  the  view  is  lost  in  one  of  those  grand  old  pine 
and  cedar  forests  which  belong  essentially  to  an  American 
scene." 

I  take  much  pleasure  in  quoting  also,  in  this  connexion, 
another  scene  of  somewhat  similar  character,  though  greatly 
miHrcprescnted  in  the  ordinary  pictures  of  it  heretofore 
given.  Pcnn's  personal  appearance  has  been  even  more 
miHapprehendcd  than  his  character.  He  was,  indeed,  one 
of  the  most  handsome  men  of  his  age,  and  at  the  time  of 
his  first  coming  to  America  he  was  in  the  very  prime  of 
life.  West  makes  him  an  ugly,  fat  old  fellow,  in  a  costume 
half  a  century  out  of  date.  So  says  Mr.  Dixon.  The  passage 
referred  to,  and  about  to  be  quoted,  is  from  a  description  of 
the  celebratpd  Treaty  with  the  Indians  at  Shackamaxon. 

"  This  conference  has  become  one  of  the  most  striking 
HceiioH  in  history.  Artists  have  painted,  poets  have  sung, 
philoHophers  have  applauded  it;  but  it  is  nevertheless  clear, 
that  ill  words  and  colours  it  has  been  equally  and  generally 
miHrepreHcnted,  because  painters,  poets,  and  historians  have 
choH(!n  to  draw  on  their  own  imaginations  for  the  features 
r)f  a  scene,  every  marking  line  of  which  they  might  have 
recovered  from  authentic  sources. 

"  The  great  outlines  of  nature  are  easily  obtained.  There, 
the  dense  masses  of  cedar,  pine,  and  chestnut,  stretching  far 
away  into  the  interior  of  the  land;  here,  the  noble  river 


-■  im-  mpsfUfft^" 


24 


THE    IRIS. 


rolling  its  waters  down  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean ;  along  its  sur- 
face rose  the  purple  smoke  of  the  settlers'  homestead ;  on 
the  opposite  shores  lay  the  fertile  and  settled  country  of 
New  Jersey.  Here  stood  the  gigantic  elm  which  was 
to  become  immortal  from  that  day  forward, — and  there  lay 
the  verdant  council  chamber  formed  by  nature  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  soil.  In  the  centre  stood  William  Penn,  in  cos- 
tume undistinguished  from  the  surrounding  group,  save  by 
the  silken  sash.  His  costume  was  simple,  but  not  pedantic 
or  ungainly :  an  outer  coat,  reaching  to  the  knees,  and 
covered  with  buttons,  a  vest  of  other  materials,  but  equally 
ample,  trousers  extremely  full,  slashed  at  the  sides,  and  tied 
with  strings  or  ribljons,  a  profusion  of  shirt  sleeves  and 
ruffles,  with  a  liat  of  the  cavalier  shape  (wanting  only  the 
feather),  from  beneath  the  brim  of  which  escaped  the  curls 
of  a  new  peruke,  were  the  chief  and  not  ungraceful  ingre- 
dients.'^'  At  his  right  hand  stood  Colonel  Markham,  who 
had  met  the  Indians  in  council  more  than  once  on  that 
identical  spot,  and  was  regarded  by  them  as  a  firm  and 
faithful  friend ;  on  his  left  Pearson,  the  intrepid  companion 
of  his  voyage ;  and  near  his  person,  but  a  little  backward, 
a  band  of  his  most  attached  adherents.  When  the  Indians 
approached  in  their  old  forest  costume,  their  bright  feathers 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  and  their  bodies  painted  in  the  most 
gorgeous  manner,  the  governor  received  them  with  the  easy 
dignity  of  one  accustomed  to  mix  with  European  courts. 
As  soon  as  the  reception  was  over,  the  sachems  retired  to  a 
short  distance,  and  after  a  brief  consultation  among  them- 

*  "  Penn.  Hist.  Soc.  3Iem.,  iii.  part  ii.  7G." 


4- 


THE    LANDING    OF    WILLIAM    PENN. 


25 


selves,  Taminent,  the  chief  sachem  or  king,  a  man  whose 
virtues  are  still  remembered  by  the  sons  of  the  forest,  ad- 
vanced again  a  few  paces,  and  put  upon  his  own  head  a 
chaplet,  into  which  was  twisted  a  small  horn :  this  chaplet 
was  his  symbol  of  power ;  and  in  the  customs  of  the  Lenni 
Lenape,  whenever  the  chief  placed  it  upon  his  brows  the 
spot  became  at  once  sacred,  and  the  person  of  every  one 
present  inviolable.  The  venerable  Indian  king  then  seated 
himself  on  the  ground,  with  the  older  sachems  on  his  right 
and  left,  the  middle-aged  warriors  ranged  themselves  in  the 
form  of  a  crescent  or  half-moon  round  them,  and  the  younger 
men  formed  a  third  and  outer  semicircle.  All  being  seated 
in  this  striking  and  picturesque  order,  the  old  monarch  an- 
nounced to  the  governor  that  the  natives  were  prepared  to 
hear  and  consider  his  words.  Penn  then  rose  to  address 
them,  his  countenance  beaming  with  all  the  pride  of  man- 
hood. He  was  at  this  time  thirty-eight  years  old ;  light  and 
graceful  in  form;  the  handsomest,  best-looking,  most  lively 
gentleman  she  had  ever  seen,  wrote  a  lady  who  was  an  eye- 
witness of  the  ceremony." 


them- 


' 


DIFFERENT  IMPRESSIONS. 

BY  FREURIKA  BREMER. 

I  WAS  in  company 
With  men  and  women, 
And  heard  small  talk 
Of  little  things, 
Of  poor  pursuits 
And  narrow  views 
Of  narrow  minds. 
I  rushed  out 
To  breathe  more  freely, 
To  look  on  nature. 

The  evening  star 

Rose  grave  and  bright, 
The  western  sky 

Was  warm  with  light. 
And  the  young  moon 

Shone  softly  down 
Among  the  shadows 

Of  the  town. 


DIFFERENT    IMPRESSIONS. 

"WLere  whispering  trees 

And  fragrant  flowers 
Stood  hushed  in  silent, 

Balmy  bowers. 
All  was  romance, 

All  loveliness. 
Wrapped  in  a  trance 

Of  mystic  bliss. 

I  looked  on 

In  bitterness, 

And  sighed  and  asked. 

Why  the  great  Lord 

Made  so  rich  beauty 

For  such  a  race 

Of  little  men? 

I  was  in  company 
With  men  and  women, 
Heard  noble  talk 
Of  noble  things. 
Of  noble  doings, 
And  manly  suffering 
And  man's  heart  beating 
For  all  mankind. 


27 


The  evening  star 

Seemed  now  less  bright. 
The  western  sky 

Of  paler  light, 


t 


28 


THE    IRIS. 

All  nature's  beauty 

And  romance, 

So  lovely 

To  gaze  upon, 

Retired  at  once, 

A  shadow  but  to  that  of  man ! 


■PPBWMMPPiNMimimiBHPi 


mm 


/ 


■IP 


mmmm 


v^' 


■^A^-'K:^: 


mm 


lH^^^w 


^^^IWf^mp',  1WBI(.ilii.ii.  I        , '       -J  ""  .     1 1   «n  I  .'miw^ 


^PW^pptlPIW""""'^^"'''' 


WE-HAR.KA, 


OR,    THE    RIVAL    CLANS. 


BY  MBS.  MART  EASTMAN. 


The  Indian  settlement,  the  opening  scene  of  our  story, 
presented  a  different  appearance  from  what  we  call  an  Indian 
village  at  the  present  day.  The  lodges  were  far  more  nume- 
rous, and  the  Indians  were  not  drooping  about,  without 
energy,  and  apparently  without  occupation.  The  long  line 
of  hills  did  not  echo  the  revels  of  the  drunkard,  nor  were 
the  faces  of  the  people  marked  with  anxiety  and  care.  The 
untaught  and  untamo-  dispositions  of  the  red  men  were  as 
yet  unaffected  by  the  evil  influences  of  the  degenerate  white 
man. 

The  Sioux*  were  in  their  summer-houses,  and  the  village 
stretched  along  the  bank  of  the  river  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  It  reached  back,  too,  to  the  foot  of  a  high  hill,  and 
some  of  the  lodges  were  shaded  by  the  overhanging  branches 

*  The  names  Sioux  and  Dacota  are  applied  to  the  same  nation ;  the  In- 
dians themselves  recognising  and  preferring  the  latter  name.  The  little 
that  is  known  of  them  is  given  in  the  introduction  to  Dacota,  or  Legends  of 
the  Sioux.  They  have,  for  many  years,  been  considered  a  powerful,  war- 
like, and  interesting  people.  They  formerly  possessed  the  knowledge  of 
many  things  of  which  they  are  now  totally  ignorant.  They  retain  the  great- 
est attachment  to  their  country  and  their  religion. 


w 


30 


THE    IRIS. 


m 


of  the  elm  and  maple.  Above  the  homes  of  the  living 
might  be  seen  the  burial-place  of  the  dead ;  for,  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  hill  the  enveloped  forms  of  the  departed  were 
receiving  the  last  red  beams  of  the  retiring  sun,  whose  rising 
and  repose  were  now  for  ever  unnoticed  by  them. 

The  long,  warm  day  was  closing  in,  and  the  Indians  were 
enjoying  themselves  in  the  cool  breezes  that  were  stirring  the 
waves  of  the  river  and  the  wild  flowers  that  swept  over  its 
banks.  They  were  collected  in  groups  in  every  direction,  but 
the  largest  party  might  be  found  surrounding  a  mat,  on 
which  was  seated  the  old  war-chief  of  the  band,  who  had  long 
dragged  a  tedious  existence,  a  care  to  others  and  a  burden 
to  himself  The  mat  was  placed  near  the  wigwam,  so  that 
the  sides  of  the  wigwam  supported  the  back  of  the  aged  and 
infirm  warrior.  His  hair  was  cut  straight  over  his  fore- 
head, but  behind  it  hung  in  long  locks  over  his  neck. 

Warm  as  was  the  season,  the  buflfalo  robe  was  wrapped 
around  him,  the  fur  side  next  to  him,  while  on  the  outside, 
in  Indian  hieroglyphics,  might  be  read  many  an  event  of  his 
life.  Around  the  edge  of  the  robe  was  a  row  of  hands 
painted  in  different  colours,  representing  the  number  of  ene- 
mies he  had  killed  in  battle.  In  the  centre  of  the  robe  were 
drawn  the  sun  and  morning  star,  objects  of  worship  among 
the  Sioux,  and  placed  on  the  robe  as  a  remedy  for  a  severe 
sickness  which  once  prostrated  his  vital  powers,  but  was 
conquered  by  the  efficacious  charm  contained  in  the  repre- 
sentation. Oman  nts  of  diflferent  kinds  adorned  his  person ; 
but  his  limbs  werv  shrunken  to  the  bone  with  age,  and  the 
time  had  long  sine  come  to  him  when  even  the  grasshopper 
was  a  burden. 


WE-HAR-KA. 


31 


The  features  of  the  Sioux  were  still  expressive,  though  the 
eyes  were  closed  and  the  lips  thin  and  compressed ;  he  was 
encircled  with  a  dignity,  which,  in  all  ages  and  climes,  at- 
taches itself  to  an  lumourablo  old  ago. 

Close  by  his  side,  and  contrasting  strongly  with  the  war- 
chief,  was  one  of  his  nearest  relations.  She  was  his  grand- 
daughter, the  orphan  girl  of  his  favourite  son.  She  was  at 
once  his  companion,  attendant,  and  idol. 

They  were  never  separated,  that  old  man  and  young  girl ; 
for  a  long  time  he  had  ))een  fed  by  her  hands,  and  now  he 
never  saw  the  light  of  the  sun  he  worshipped  except  when 
she  raised  and  held  open  the  eyelids  which  weakness  had 
closed  over  his  eyes.  She  had  just  assisted  his  tottering 
steps,  and  seated  him  on  the  mat,  where  he  might  enjoy 
the  pleasant  evening  time  and  the  society  of  those  who  de- 
lighted in  the  strange  stories  his  memory  called  up,  or  who 
were  willing  to  receive  the  advice  which  the  aged  are  ever 
privilegcu  to  pour  into  the  hearts  of  the  young. 

The  evening  meal  of  the  warrior  had  been  a  light  one,  for 
We-har-ka  still  held  in  her  small  and  beautiful  hand  a  bark 
dish,  which  contained  venison  cut  up  in  small  pieces,  occa- 
sionally pressing  him  to  eat  again.  It  was  evident  there  was 
something  unusual  agitating  his  thoughts,  for  he  impatiently 
put  aside  the  hand  that  fed  him,  and  taking  his  pipe,  the 
handle  of  which  was  elaborately  adorned,  he  held  it  to  have 
it  lighted,  then  dreamily  and  quietly  placed  it  in  his  mouth. 

He  had  long  been  an  object  of  reverence  to  his  people ; 
though  superseded  as  a  warrior  and  a  leader,  yet  his  influence 
was  still  acknowledged  in  the  band  which  he  had  so  long 
controlled.    He  had  kept  this  alive  in  a  great  measure  by 


^ 


32 


THE    IRIS. 


the  oft-repeated  stories  of  his  achievements,  and  above  all, 
by  the  many  personal  encounters  he  had  had,  not  only  with 
his  enemies,  but  with  the  gods,  the  objects  of  their  devotion 
and  fear. 

The  pipe  was  soon  laid  aside,  and  his  low  and  murmuring 
words  could  not  be  understood  by  the  group,  that,  attracted 
by  the  unusual  excitement  that  showed  itself  in  the  war- 
chief's  manner,  had  pressed  near  him. 

After  a  short  communing  witli  himself  he  placed  his  hand 
upon  the  head  of  the  girl,  who  was  watching  every  change  in 
his  expressive  ^ace.  "My  daughter,"  he  said,  "you  will  not 
be  alone — the  Eagle  Eye  v*'ill  not  again  see  the  form  of  his 
warrior  son  :  he  would  have  charged  him  to  care  for  his 
sister,  even  as  the  small  ])irds  watch  and  guard  around  the 
home  of  the  forest  god. 

"  The  children  of  the  Great  Spirit  must  submit  to  his  will. 
My  heart  would  laugh  could  I  again  see  the  tall  form  of  my 
grandson.  I  would  see  once  more  the  fleetncss  of  his  step 
and  the  strength  of  his  arm;  ])ut  it  is  not  to  be.  Before  he 
shall  return,  crying,  '  It  is  for  my  father,  the  scalp  of  his 
enemy,'  I  shall  be  roaming  over  the  hunting-grounds  of 
the  Great  Sjiirit.  Do  not  weep,  my  daughter;  you  will  be 
happy  in  your  husband's  wigwam,  and  3'ou  will  tell  your 
children  how  the  Eagle  Eye  loved  you,  even  till  his  feet 
started  on  the  warrior's  journey. 

"  Your  brother  will  return,"  he  continued,  "  and  it  is  for 
him  that  I  lay  aside  the  pipe,  which  I  shall  never  smoke 
again ;  the  drum  that  I  have  used  since  I  have  been  a  me- 
dicine-man, I  wish  laid  near  my  side  when  I  shall  be  dead, 
and  wrapped  in  the  buiialo  robe  which  will  cover  me. 


I 


\& 


WE-HAR-KA. 


83 


ove  all, 
ly  with 
cvotion 


•muring 
ttracted 
he  war- 
ns hand 
lange  in 
will  not 
n  of  his 
for  his 
und  the 

his  will. 
in  of  my 
his  step 
lefore  he 
,p  of  his 
)unds  of 
I  will  be 
ell  your 
his  feet 

it  is  for 
r  smoke 
jn  a  me- 
be  dead, 
ne. 


"  You,  my  braves,  shall  know  whence  I  obtained  this  drum. 
It  hns  often  brought  back  life  to  the  dying  man,  and  its 
wjiind  has  secured  us  success  in  battle.  I  have  often  told 
you  that  I  had  seen  the  God  of  the  Great  Deep  in  my  dreams, 
and  fi'om  him  I  obtained  power  to  strike  terror  to  the  hearts 
ol'  my  enemies.  Who  has  shouted  the  death-cry  oftener 
tliaii  I  ?  Look  at  the  feathers"''  of  honour  in  my  head !  What 
em'tny  ever  heard  the  name  of  Eagle  Eye  without  trembling? 
Hut  I,  terrible  as  I  have  been  to  my  enemies,  must  grow 
weak  like  a  woman,  and  die  like  a  child.  The  waters  of 
tlie  rivers  rush  on;  you  may  hear  them  and  trace  their  way, 
hut  soon  they  join  the  waves  of  the  great  deep,  and  we  see 
tliem  no  more — so  I  am  about  to  join  the  company  in  the 
houHo  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  when  your  children  say, 
'  Where  is  Eagle  Eye?'  you  may  answer,  'The  Great  Spirit 
huH  called  him,  we  cannot  go  where  he  is.' 

"  It  was  from  Unk-ta-he,  the  god  of  the  great  deep,  that 
I  received  that  drum.  Before  I  was  born  of  woman  I  lived 
in  the  dark  waters.  Unk-ta-he  rose  up  with  his  terrible 
eyes,  and  took  me  to  his  home.  I  lived  with  him  and  the 
other  gods  of  the  sea.  I  cannot  to  you  all  repeat  the  les- 
sons of  wisdom  he  bus  taught  me;  it  is  a  part  of  the  great 
medicine  words  that  women  should  never  hear. 

"  There,  in  the  home  of  the  god  of  the  sea,  I  saw  many 
wonders — the  large  (.loors  through  which  the  water  gods 
[)aHHed  when  they  visited  the  earth,  the  giant  trees  lying  in 
tht;  water  higher  than  our  mountains.     They  had  lightning 

*  l''or  every  scalp  taken  by  a  Sioux  in  battle  ho  is  entitled  to  wear  a 
fV'iidier  of  the  War  Eagle.  This  is  an  ornament  greatly  esteemed  among 
thorn. 


34 


THE    IRIS. 


too,  the  weapons  of  the  thunder  birds  ;*  when  the  winds 
arose,  and  the  sea  waved,  then  did  Unk-ta-he  hurl  the 
streaked  fire  to  the  earth  through  the  waters. 

"  The  god  of  the  great  deep  gave  me  this  drum,  and  I 
wish  it  buried  with  me ;  he  told  me  when  I  struck  the 
drum  my  will  should  be  obeyed,  and  it  has  been  so. 

"  When  my  son  returns,  tell  him  to  let  his  name  be  terri- 
ble like  his  grandfather's.  Tell  him  that  my  arm  was  like 
a  child's  because  of  the  winters  I  had  seen,  but  that  he 
must  revenge  his  brother's  death;  then  will  he  be  like 
the  brave  men  who  have  gone  before  him,  and  his  deeds  will 
be  remembered  as  long  as  the  Dacotas  hate  their  enemies. 
The  shadows  grow  deeper  on  the  hills,  and  the  long  night 
will  soon  rest  upon  the  head  of  the  war-chief.  I  am  old,  yet 
my  death-song  sliall  call  back  the  spirits  of  the  dead.  Where 
are  the  Chippeways,  my  enemies  ?  See  their  red  scalps  scorch- 
ing in  the  sun !  I  am  a  great  warrior;  tell  me,  where  is  the 
enemy  who  fears  me  not !" 

While  the  voice  of  the  old  man  now  rose  with  the  excite- 
ment that  was  influencing,  now  fell  with  the  exhaustion, 
which  brought  big  drops  of  perspiration  on  his  face,  the  In- 
dians were  collecting  in  a  crowd  around  him. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  glorious  evening  for  the  war-chief  to 
die.  The  horizon  was  a  mass  of  crimson  clouds,  their  gor- 
geous tints  were  reflected  on  the  river ;  the  rocky  bluffs  rose 


*  The  Dacotas  hcliuvc  thunder  to  be  a  bird.  It  would  bo  impossible  to 
enumerate  their  gods,  they  are  so  numerous;  but  the  thunder  is  much  feared 
as  being  one  of  the  most  powerful.  In  living  among  them  you  constantly 
see  representations  of  these  gods,  drawn  and  carved  on  the  various  articles 
that  arc  used  among  them. 


WE-HAR-KA. 


35 


le  winds 
hurl  the 

n,  and  I 
mck  the 
I. 

be  terri- 
was  like 
that  he 

be  like 
eeds  will 
enemies, 
ng  night 
1  old,  yet 

Where 
«  scorch- 
;re  is  the 

e  excite- 
laustion, 
,  the  In- 

-chief  to 
heir  gor- 
tuffs  rose 

possible  to 
luoh  feared 
constantly 
)U8  articles 


up  hke  castle  walls  around  the  village,  while  on  the  oppo- 
site shore  the  deer  were  parting  the  foliage  with  their  grace- 
ful heads  and  drinking  from  the  low  banks. 

We-har-ka  wiped  the  forehead  and  brow  of  her  grand- 
father. There  was  something  of  more  than  ordinary  inte- 
rest about  the  appearance  of  this  young  person  :  her  features 
were  regularly  formed,  their  expression  mild ;  her  figure  light 
and  yielding  as  a  young  tree ;  her  hair  was  neatly  parted 
and  gathered  in  small  braids  over  her  neck ;  her  dress  well 
calculated  to  display  the  grace  of  her  figure ;  a  heavy  neck- 
lace of  wampum*  covered  her  throat  and  neck,  and  on  her 
bosom  was  suspended  the  holy  cross ! 

Her  complexion  was  lighter  than  usual  for  an  Indian  girl, 
owing  to  the  confinement  occasioned  by  the  charge  of  her 
infirm  relative;  a  subdued  melancholy  pervaded  her  fea- 
tures, and  even  the  tone  of  her  voice. 

There  was  a  pause,  for  the  warrior  slept  a  few  moments, 
and  again  his  voice  was  heard.  Death  was  making  him 
mindful  of  the  glorious  achievements  of  his  life.  Again  he 
was  brandishing  his  tomahawk  in  circles  round  the  head  of 
his  fallen  foe ;  again  he  taunted  his  prisoner,  whose  life  he 
had  spared  that  he  might  enjoy  his  sufferings  under  the 
torment ;  again,  with  a  voice  as  strong  as  in  early  manhood, 

*  Wampum  is  a  long  bead  made  of  the  inside  of  a  shell,  white  and  of  dark 
purple  colour  J  it  is  very  much  valued  by  the  Indians,  used  as  necklaces  j 
the  women  esteem  nothing  more  highly  than  a  string  or  two  of  wampum. 
It  has  frequently  been  used  as  currency  among  the  different  tribes;  but  in 
making  treaties  it  is  strung  and  made  into  a  belt,  and  at  the  close  of  a 
speech  is  presented  to  the  other  party  as  a  pledge  of  good  faith- 

3 


i 


36 


THE    IRIS. 


he  shouted  the  death-cry — it  was  his  own,  for  not  another 
sound,  not  even  a  sigh  escaped  him. 

sjs  ^  Sx*  H*  ^  ^*  *)* 

Gently  they  moved  him  into  the  wigwam.  We-har-ka 
stood  by  his  head.  There  was  no  loud  wailing,  for  he  had 
outlived  almost  all  who  were  bound  to  him  by  near  ties. 

Those  who  stood  around  heaped  their  most  cherished  pos- 
sessions on  his  feet :  the  knife,  the  pipe,  and  the  robe  were 
freely  and  affectionately  offered  to  the  dead. 

Wc-har-ka  gazed  earnestly  upon  him :  large  tears  fell  on 
her  bosom  and  on  the  old  man's  brow.  Some  one  drew  near 
and  respectfully  covered  his  venerable  face :  the  drum  was 
placed,  as  he  requested,  at  his  side. 

One  of  the  men  said,  "  Eagle  Eye  takes  proud  steps  as  he 
travels  towards  the  land  of  souls.  His  heart  has  long  been 
where  warriors  chase  the  buffalo  on  the  prairies  of  the  Great 
Spirit."  We-har-ka  drew  from  her  belt  her  knife,  and  cut 
long,  deep  gashes  on  her  round  arms;  then,  not  heeding  the 
wounds,*  she  severed  the  braids  of  her  glossy  hair,  and  cut- 
ting them  off  with  the  knife,  red  with  her  own  blood,  she 
threw  them  at  her  feet. 

How  did  the  holy  cross  find  its  way  to  the  wilds  of  a  new 
country  ?  A  savage,  yet  powerful  nation,  idolaters  at  heart 
and  in  practice,  bending  to  the  sun,  the  forests,  and  the  sea — 

*  Among  the  Sioux  it  is  customary  to  inflict  wounds,  sometimes  deep 
and  severe  ones,  upon  themselves  on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  a  friend. 
The  arms  of  aged  people  are  frequently  seamed  with  scars. 


^^p 


WE-HAR-KA. 


37 


>t  another 

* 

iV^e-har-ka 
or  he  had 
ir  ties, 
ished  pos- 
robe  were 

irs  fell  on 
drew  near 
drum  was 

teps  as  he 
long  been 
the  Great 
e,  and  cut 
ceding  the 
',  and  cut- 
blood,  she 


3  of  a  new 
s  at  heart 
the  sea — 

letimes  deep 
of  a  fricud. 


how  was  it  that  the  sign  of  the  disciple  of  Jesus  lay  glitter- 
ing on  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  women  of  this  heathen  race  ? 

Did  the  Christian  hjmn  of  praise  ever  rise  with  the  soft 
and  silvery  vapours  of  morning  to  the  heavens  ?  Had  the 
low  and  earnest  Christian's  prayer  ever  sounded  among  the 
bluffs  tliat  towered  and  the  islands  that  slept  ?  Never,  and 
yet  the  emblem  of  their  faith  was  there. 
.  But,  to  what  region  did  not  the  Jesuit  penetrate  ?  Hardly 
were  the  resources  of  our  country  discovered,  before  they 
were  upon  its  shores. 

They  were  there,  with  their  promises  and  penances,  their 
soft  words  and  their  Latin  prayers,  with  purposes  not  to  be 
subdued  in  accomplishing  the  mission  for  which  they  were 
sent.  Was  it  a  mission  of  faith,  or  of  gain  ?  Was  it  to  ex- 
tend the  hopes  and  triumphs  of  the  cross,  or  to  aggrandize  a 
Society  always  overflowing  with  means  and  with  power? 
Witness  the  result. 

Yet  they  poured  like  rain  into  the  rich  and  beautiful 
countrj^  of  Acadie.*  See  them  passing  through  forests  where 
the  dark  trees  bent  to  and  fro  "  like  giants  possessing  fear- 
ful secrets,"  enduring  hunger,  privation,  and  fatigue.  See 
them  again  in  their  frail  barks  bounding  over  the  angry 
waters  of  Huron,  riding  upon  its  mountain  waves,  and  often 
cast  upon  its  inhospitable  rocks. 

Folldw  them  as  they  tread  the  paths  where  the  moccasin- 
step  alone  had  ever  been  heard,  regardless  of  danger  and  of 
death,  planting  the  cross  even  in  the  midst  of  a  Dacota 
village.  Could  this  be  for  aught  save  the  love  of  the  Saviour? 

*  Acadia,  or  Acadie,  was  the  ancient  name  for  what  is  now  called  Nova 
Scotia.  Before  the  latter  name  was  used  in  the  act  of  incorporation  by  the 
British  Parliament,  Acadie  was  within  the  jurisdiction  of  Lower  Canada. 


38 


THE    IRIS. 


Those  who  know  the  history  of  the  Society  founded  by 
Loyola,  best  can  tell. 

Among  the  ranks  of  the  Jepuit  were  found  the  Christian 
and  the  martyr,  as,  among  the  priesthood  of  Rome,  in  her 
darkest  days,  were  here  and  there  those  whose  robes  have, 
no  doubt,  been  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb. 

Those  hearts  that  were  really  touched  with  the  truth 
divine,  drew  nearer  to  the  path  of  duty  by  the  solemn  spec^ 
tacle  of  man,  standing  on  the  earth,  gay  and  beautiful  as  if 
light  had  just  been  created,  yet  not  even  knowing  of  the 
existence  of  his  great  Creator. 


I 


Not  far  from  the  wigwam  of  the  dead  chief,  Father  Blanc 
knelt  before  the  altar  which  he  had  erected.  He  wore  the 
black  robe  of  his  order,  and  as  he  knelt,  the  strange  words 
he  uttered  sounded  stranger  still  here.  On  the  altar  were 
the  crucifix  and  many  of  the  usual  ornaments  carried  by 
the  wandering  Romish  priests. 

Flowers  too  were  strewn  on  the  altar,  flowers  large  and 
beautiful,  such  as  he  had  never  seen  even  'n  la  helle  France. 
He  chaunted  the  vespers  alone,  and  had  but  just  risen  from 
his  devotions  when  the  dying  cry  of  the  war-chief  rung 
through  the  village. 

The  priest  walked  slowly  to  the  scene  of  death.  Why  was 
he  not  there  before  with  the  cross  and  the  holy  oil  ?  Ah !  the 
war-chief  was  no  subject  for  the  Jesuit  faith — he  had  wor- 
shipped too  long  Wakinyan-Unk-ta-he  to  listen  to  the  words 
of  the  black  robe.  There  were  no  baptisms,  no  chauntings 
of  the  mass  here ;  there  was  no  interest  at  stake  to  induce 
the  haughty  Sioux  to  the  necessity  of  yielding  up  his  house- 
hold gods.    They  were  not  a  weaker  party  warrmg  with 


WE-HAR-KA. 


39 


nded  by 


Christian 
e,  in  her 
»es  have- 


he  truth 
mn  spec-^ 
tiful  as  if 
ig  of  the 


ler  Blanc 
wore  the 
ge  words 
itar  were 
xried  by 

irge  and 
e  France. 
sen  from 
lief  rung 

Why  was 
Ah!  the 
had  wor- 
he  words 
launtings 
0  induce 
lis  house- 
•mg  with 


the  French,  and  obliged  from  motives  of  policy  to  taste  the 
consecrated  wafer.  Contrasted  with  the  Indian's  ignorance 
was  his  native  dignity.  When  Father  Blanc  told  them  there 
was  but  one  religion  and  that  was  the  Eoman  Catholic,  and 
that  the  time  would  come  when  all  would  be  subject  to  the 
man  who  was  in  God's  place  upon  the  earth,  who  lived  at 
Rome,  then  would  the  Sioux  laugh,  and  say,  "  As  long  as 
the  sun  shines,  the  Dacotas  will  keep  the  medicine  feast." 

In  vain  were  the  pictured  prayer-book  and  the  holy  relics 
exhibited.  What  were  they  to  the  tracks  of  Haokah  the 
giant,  or  the  gods'  house,  under  the  hill  which  reared  itself 
even  to  the  clouds,  under  which  the  gods  rested  themselves 
from  their  battles. 

The  priest  wept  when  he  thought  of  the  useless  sacrifice 
he  had  made :  he  could  not  even  gain  the  love  of  the  strange 
beings  for  whose  sake  he  had  endured  so  much.  They  were 
not  like  the  Abnakis,  "  those  men  of  the  east,"  who  so  loved 
and  obeyed  the  fathers  who  sojourned  among  them. 

And  the  useless  life  he  was  leading,  how  long  might  it 
last?  Restrained,  as  the  Sioux  were,  only  by  the  laws  of 
hospitality  and  the  promise  they  had  made  to  the  Indians 
who  conducted  him  hither,  how  soon  might  these  influences 
cease  to  afiect  them? 

We-har-ka  alone  spoke  gently  and  kindly  to  him.  She 
knew  that  his  heart,  like  hers,*  vibrated  beneath  a  load  of 
care ;  she  found  too  a  strange  interest  in  his  stories, — the 
woman's  love  of  the  marvellous  was  roused;  the  miracles  of 
the  saints  delighted  her  as  did  the  feats  of  the  gods. 

But  only  so  far  was  she  a  Christian ;  though  she  wore  a 
gift  from  the  Jesuit,  the  consecrated  sign.     Perhaps  in  the 


40 


THE    IRIS. 


after  accounts  of  his  converts  she  was  reckoned  among  them. 
We  are  told  by  one  of  the  Jesuit  fathers  of  the  true  conver- 
sion and  Christian  death  of  a  Canada  Indian.  "  While  I 
related  to  him,"  said  he,  "  the  scene  of  the  crucifixion,  'Oh ! 
that  I  had  been  there,'  exclaimed  the  Indian,  *  I  would  have 
brought  away  the  scalps  of  those  Jews.' " 

The  war-chief  was  arrayed  in  his  choicest  clothing ;  and, 
but  for  the  silence  in  the  wigwam,  and  the  desolate  appeai- 
ance  of  the  young  person  who  was  alone  with  her  dead,  one 
would  have  supposed  that  he  slept  as  usual.  The  charms 
were  still  to  be  left  about  his  person  for  protection.  The 
body  was  wrapped  in  skins:  they  were  as  yet  laid  but 
loosely  about  him,  ready  for  their  final  arrangement,  when, 
with  the  face  towards  the  rising  sun,  the  warrior  should  be 
laid  upon  the  scaffolding,  to  enjoy  undisturbed  repose. 

But  a  few  hours  had  elapsed  since  he  sat  and  talked 
among  them ;  but  now  each  of  the  group  had  returned  to 
his  usual  occupation.  Even  his  daughter  sat  with  her  face 
drooping  over  her  hands,  forgetting  for  the  moment  her 
grief  at  his  loss,  and  endeavouring  to  anticipate  her  own 
fate.  The  twilight  had  not  yet  given  way  to  night,  but  the 
sudden  death  that  had  occurred  had  hushed  all  their  usual 
noisy  amusements.  Nothing  was  heard  but  the  subdued 
voices  of  the  warriors  as  they  dwelt  on  the  exploits  of  Eagle 
Eye,  or  speculated  on  the  employments  that  engaged  him, 
now  that  their  tie  with  him  was  sundered.  Sometimes  the 
subject  was  changed  for  another  of  more  exciting  interest. 
A  party  that  had  gone  in  search  of  the  Chii)peways,*  who 


*  The  Sioux  and  Chippcways  seem  to  be  natural  enemies.   Peace  has  been 
declared  between  the  two  nations  time  and  again,  but  never  has  it  been  sub- 


Jifi 


WE-HAR-KA. 


41 


ng  them. 


3  conver- 
'  While  I 
'Oh! 


on, 


uld  have 

ng;  and, 
B  appeal- 
lead,  one 

0  charms 
m.  The 
laid  but 
it,  when, 
fiould  be 
ose. 

d  talked 
umed  to 

her  face 
nent  her 
her  own 
t,  but  the 
leir  usual 

subdued 

1  of  Eagle 
ged  him, 
times  the 

interest. 
-ys,*  who 

cc  lias  been 
it  been  sus- 


had  been  hovering  near  their  village,  was  e^vpected  to  return, 
and  there  was  some  little  anxiety  occasioned  by  their  pro- 
longed stay.  Among  the  most  noted  of  the  party  was  the 
brother  of  We-har-ka  and  a  young  brave  called  the  Bearer. 
These  two  young  men,  aspirants  for  glory  and  the  preference 
which,  among  the  Indians,  is  awarded  to  bravery,  cunning, 
and  the  virtues,  so  considered  among  them,  belonged  to  diffe- 
rent clans.  The  rivalry  and  hatred  between  these  clans  raged 
high,  more  so  at  this  time  than  for  some  years  previous. 

The  Indian  lives  only  for  revenge ;  he  has  neither  arts 
nor  learning  to  occupy  his  mind,  and  his  religion  encourages 
rather  than  condemns  this  passion. 

The  daring  showed  by  the  Chippeways  had  only  stimu- 
lated them  to  greater  acts  of  bravery ;  they  were  determined 
that  the  tree  of  peace,  now  torn  up  by  the  roots,  should  never 
be  jjlanted  again  on  the  boundaries  of  the  two  countries. 

"We-har-ka  had  arisen  from  her  recumbent  attitude,  and 
stood  by  the  side  of  her  dead  relative.  She  had  not  time 
to  reflect  on  the  loneliness  of  her  position. 

She  had  only  laid  her  hard  on  the  cold  forehead  where 
Death  had  so  recently  set  his  seal,  when  the  well-known  tri- 
umphant voice  of  her  brother  echoed  through  the  village. 

Hardly  had  she  turned  towards  the  door  when  another 
yell  of  triumph,  sounding  even  louder  than  the  first,  was 
heard.  She  knew  that  voice  too,  for  the  colour  mounted  to 
her  cheeks,  and  her  breath  came  short  and  quickly. 

A  chorus  of  yells  now  rent  the  air,  answered  by  the  In- 
dians who  had  joyfully  started  up  to  meet  the  party.     How 

tained,  although  the  United  States  Government  has  made  every  effort  to 
induce,  and  even  compel  them  to  forego  their  ancient  enmity. 


42 


THE   IRIS. 


every  eye  shone  with  delight,  every  feature  working  with 
convulsive  excitement;  all  the  fierce  passions  of  their  nature 
were  aroused.  Those  prolonged  and  triumphant  shouts  had 
prepared  them  for  what  was  to  come.  Already  they  longed 
to  see  the  blood-dyed  scalps,  and,  it  might  be,  the  face  of 
some  prisoner  in  whose  sufferings  they  were  to  revel. 

The  figures  of  the  successful  war-party  soon  made  them- 
selves visible  in  the  moonlight.  One  by  one  they  turned  the 
winding  trail  that  led  to  the  village.  Over  their  heads  they 
bore  the  fresh  scalps;  and  as  they  came  in  view,  a  piercing 
universal  shout  arose  from  all.  The  eagerness  of  the  women 
induced  them  to  press  forward,  and  when  it  was  impossible 
to  gain  a  view,  from  the  great  crowd  in  advance,  they  as- 
cended the  nearest  rock,  where  they  could  distinctly  see  the 
approaching  procession. 

After  the  scalps  and  their  bearers  were  recognised,  another 
deafening  shout  arose.  The  prisoners  were  descried  as  they 
neared :  it  was  seen  there  were  two  men  and  a  woman.  The 
arms  of  the  men  were  pinioned  back  between  their  shoulders. 
Nearer  still  they  come,  but  the  shouting  is  over :  intense 
curiosity  and  anxiety  have  succeeded  this  eager  delight. 

The  prisoners  and  scalps  were  their  enemies,  but  over 
every  heart  the  question  passed.  Have  they  all  returned  ? 
Has  each  husband  been  restored  to  his  family,  each  child  to 
the  parent  ?  But  not  long  did  these  softer  feelings  influence 
the  conduct  of  the  Sioux.  They  had  now  nearly  met,  and 
the  war-party,  with  the  prisoners,  had  reached  the  outskirts 
of  the  village.  Here  the  confusion  had  returned  and  at- 
tained its  greatest  height;  welcomes  had  been  said,  and  the 
crowd  pressed  around  the  scalps  to  feast  their  eyes  on  the 


king  with 
eir  nature 
houts  had 
ley  longed 
lie  face  of 
i^el. 

ide  them- 
umed  the 
eads  they 
I  piercing 
lie  women 
mpossible 
,  they  as- 
ly  see  the 

I,  another 
d  as  they 
an.    The 
houlders. 
:  intense 
light, 
but  over 
eturned  ? 
I  child  to 
influence 
met,  and 
outskirts 
and  at- 
,  and  the 
;s  on  the 


WE-HAR-KA. 


48 


precious  sight.  There  were  but  four,  and  they  had  been 
takt'ii  in  the  hurry  of  flight :  they  were  round  pieces,  torn 
from  the  top  of  the  head,  and  from  one  of  them  fell  the  long, 
glossy  hair  of  a  woman. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  carriage  of  the  prisoners  to  de- 
note their  condition,  their  attitude  and  demeanour  pro- 
claiming the  conqueror  instead  of  the  conquered — the 
haughty  determination  of  their  looks,  the  bold  freedom  of 
their  steps,  their  gait  as  erect  as  possible,  with  their  hands 
bound  behind  them.  Even  the  insolence  of  their  language, 
in  reply  to  the  taunts  of  their  victors,  showed  they  were  pre- 
pared for  what  was  inevitable. 

The  calm,  pale  face  of  the  young  Chippeway  girl  showed 
that  she  had  determined  to  brave  the  blood-loving  Sioux, 
and  let  them  see  that  a  woman  could  meet  death  as  well  as 
a  warrior. 

The  procession  stopped,  and  one  of  the  Sioux  women 
called  for  her  husband.  "  Where  is  he,  warriors  ?  give  me 
back  my  husband." 

"  You  will  not  weep,"  said  one  of  the  men ;  "  here  is  the 
Chippeway  who  killed  him,"  pointing  to  the  younger  of  the 
male  prisoners.  "You  may  stone  him,  and  then  you  may 
sing  while  the  fire  is  burning  under  his  feet." 

A  loud  laugh  of  defiance  was  heard  from  the  prisoner. 
" The  Sioux  are  dogs,"  he  said ;  "let  them  hurry;  I  am  in 
haste  to  go  to  the  land  of  souls."  The  words  were  not  ut- 
tered ere  a  dozen  spears  pricked  his  body.  There  was  no 
cry  of  pain ;  he  only  laughed  at  the  nnger  he  had  excited. 

The  attention  of  the  Indians  was  now  withdrawn  from 
their  prisoners,  for  "We-har-ka  was  rapidly  walking  towards 


44 


THE    IRIS. 


thorn.  Even  the  arrangement  of  her  dross  was  distinctly 
visible  as  she  approached  them :  her  long  and  glossy  hair 
disarranged  purposely,  to  mark  the  intensity  of  her  grief; 
the  blood  was  still  trickling  from  her  arms ;  her  pale  face 
looking  even  paler  than  it  was,  by  the  moonlight  and  its 
broad  shadows. 

She  was  hastening  to  meet  her  brother,  yet  she  did  not 
offer  him  one  congratulation  on  his  safe  return.  "  My 
brother,"  she  cried,  "your  grandfather  is  dead.  He  lies 
cold  and  still,  as  the  large  buffalo  when  he  has  ceased  to 
struggle  with  our  hunters.  Go  to  his  lodge  and  tell  him  of 
your  prisoners,  and  your  scalps.  For  me,  I  will  go  myself  to 
shed  tears.  I  will  follow  the  fresh  tracks  of  the  deer,  and 
by  the  wakeen-stone,*  in  the  prairie,  I  will  sit  and  weep 
where  no  eye  can  see  me  but  the  Great  Spirit's.  While  the 
moon  walks  through  the  sky,  the  spirits  shall  hear  my  voice." 

She  was  listened  to  in  silence,  for  the  Indians  always 
showed  respect  to  We-har-ka;  her  being  constantly  with 
the  war-chief  had  made  them  look  upon  her  almost  with 
reverence,  as  if  she  might  have  obtained  from  him  some 
supernatural  power. 

"  The  Sioux  listen  to  the  words  of  a  woman,"  said  the  old 
prisoner,  as  We-har-ka  turned  towards  the  prairie.  "  Why 
do  they  not  make  her  a  war-chief,  and  let  her  take  them  to 
battle  ?" 

"  We  will,"  answered  her  brother,  "  when  we  go  again  to 


*  Wakccn-stone.  The  Sioux  choose  stones  as  objects  of  worship.  We 
find  them  frcf^uently  on  their  thoroughfares;  they  never  pass  these  without 
stopping  to  smoke,  or  to  make  some  slight  ofiering,  such  as  tobacco,  a 
feather,  an  arrow,  or  a  trinket. 


WE-nAR-KA. 


45 


[li-stinctly 
oHsy  hair 
icr  grief; 
pale  face 
)  and  its 

c  did  not 
I.  "  My 
lie  lies 
ceased  to 
11  him  of 
nyself  to 
leer,  and 
nd  weep 
\rhile  the 
ly  voice." 
3  always 
itly  with 
lost  with 
im  some 

d  the  old 

"Why 

them  to 

again  to 

ship.     We 

3SC  without 

tobacco,  a 


bring  home  old  men.  I  would  not  have  been  troubled  with 
your  old  carrion,  but  I  thought  to  let  my  father  return  the 
kind  treatment  you  once  gave  him ;  and  I  would  kill  you 
now,  but  that  I  would  rather  the  women  would  do  it." 

"  The  Sioux  are  brave  when  their  prisoners  arc  bound," 
again  ti  mted  the  prisoner ;  "  let  them  do  their  will :  the 
Chippeway  fears  neither  fire  nor  death." 

The  rage  of  the  Sioux  was  unbounded ;  the  cold  uncon- 
cern of  their  prisoner  almost  destroyed  the  pleasure  of  vic- 
tory. The  women  clamorously  demanded  that  he  might  be 
delivered  over  to  them.  They  seized  him,  and  moved  for- 
ward to  a  large  tree,  whose  massive  trunk  indicated  its 
strength.  Hero  they  bound  him  with  strong  sinews  and 
pieces  of  skin.  His  hands  were  tied  in  front,  and  a  strong 
cord  was  passed  about  his  waist,  and  with  it  he  was  fastened 
to  the  tree. 

This  was  all  the  work  of  the  women,  and  they  evinced 
by  their  expedition  and  hideous  laughs  the  pleasure  they 
found  in  their  employment. 

The  Sioux  then  went  to  see  the  body  of  their  venerated 
chief;  on  their  return  they  found  their  victim  firmly  secured 
to  the  tree.  The  son  was  bound  at  some  little  distance  from 
the  father,  while  the  daughter  was  sitting,  hiding  her  face 
between  her  hands,  weeping  for  her  father's  situation.  Pride 
had  all  gone,  only  affection  occupied  her  heart.  The  old 
Chippeway  was  convinced  now  of  his  immediate  sufferings ; 
he  had  been  tranquil  and  unmoved  until  the  return  of  the 
warriors.  Suddenly  he  shouted,  in  a  loud  voice,  the  wild 
notes  of  his  death-song. 

There  was  no  failing  in  his  voice ;  even  his  daughter  turned 


46 


THE    IRIS. 


towards  him  with  satisfaction  as  he  extolled  his  life,  and 
expressed  pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  the  hunting- 
grounds  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

As  he  ceased,  Chashe  told  him  he  must  rest  from  his 
journey  ere  he  commenced  his  long  way  to  the  land  of  souls. 
"A  great  many  winters  ago,"  said  the  young  Sioux,  "my 
father  was  in  your  country ;  you  took  him  prisoner,  you 
bound  him,  and  you  told  him  what  a  good  warm  fire  he 
was  to  have  to  die  by. 

"  You  said  you  loved  him  too  well  to  let  him  be  cold ; 
but  while  you  were  binding  him  he  was  too  strong  for  you. 
Unk-ta-he  had  made  him  brave;  he  bounded  from  your 
grasp  in  sight  of  your  warriors.  He  flew;  your  bravest  men 
chased  him  in  vain.  He  came  home  and  lived  to  an  age 
greater  than  yours. 

"  The  old  war-chief  is  gone,  or  he  would  tell  you  how 
welcome  you  are  to  his  village.  He  was  always  hospitable 
and  loved  to  treat  brave  men  well.  But  we  must  eat  first, 
or  we  cannot  enjoy  ourselves  while  you  are  so  comfortable 
with  your  old  limbs  burning." 

Expressions  of  approbation  followed  this  speech  on  the 
part  of  the  Sioux,  but  there  was  no  notice  taken  of  it  by  the 
Chippeway,  who  was  now  occupied  in  contemplating  his 
daughter.  He  had  before  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  her 
presence. 

No  bodily  torture  could  equal  the  pang  of  the  father,  who 
saw  the  utterly  helpless  and  unhappy  situation  of  his  child. 
His  own  fate  was  fixed — that  causea  him  no  uneasiness. 
There  was  even  a  feeling  of  enthusiasm  in  the  prospect  of 


WE-HAR-KA. 


47 


5  life,  and 
3  hunting- 

from  his 
d  of  souls. 


3UX. 


((■ 


■>  my 
oner,  you 
m  fire  he 

be  cold ; 
5  for  you. 
'om  your 

Lvest  men 

0  an  age 

you  how 
ospitable 
eat  first, 
afortable 

1  on  the 
it  by  the 
ting  his 
is  of  her 

iier,  who 
is  child, 
easiness, 
•spect  of 


nhowing  his  enemies  how  slight  was  their  power  over  him  ; 
how  little  he  cared  for  any  tortures  they  might  inflict. 

But  his  young  daughter,  who  would  have  been  safe  now 
arriong  her  own  people,  but  for  her  aflfection  for  him,  which 
iridnoed  her  to  remain  by  his  side,  refusing  the  opportunity 
of  escape. 

The  Sioux  saw  his  concern  and  rejoiced  that  this  pang 
was  added  to  the  torture:  not  only  his  own  fate  to  bear,  but 
the  consciousness  that  he  had  caused  the  destruction  of  both 
his  children.  His  son  was  surrounded  while  endeavouring 
U)  protect  his  father. 

Thus  will  nature  assert  her  right  in  the  hearts  of  all  her 
children ;  but  the  Chippeway  closed  his  eyes  to  all,  save  the 
eflbrt  of  appearing  indifferent  to  his  sufferings.  Again  he 
sung  his  death-song,  while  the  Sioux  stretched  themselves 
upon  the  grass,  eating  the  tender  venison  which  had  been 
l)r(!pared  for  them,  occasionally  offering  some  to  the  Chippe- 
way, advising  him  to  eat  and  be  strong,  that  he  might 
bravely  walk  on  his  journey  to  the  land  of  souls. 

While  the  Dacotas  were  eating  and  resting  themselves, 
the  Chippeway  chaunted  his  death-song;  his  son,  appa- 
rently, was  unmoved  by  his  own  and  his  father's  desperate 
situjition,  but  the  daughter  no  longer  endeavoured  to  re- 
strain her  grief.  Exhausted  from  fatigue  and  flisting,  she 
would  gladly  have  known  her  own  fate,  even  if  death  were 
to  be  her  mode  cfider.^e  from  her  distressing  position. 

The  Indians  frequently  offered  her  food.  Chashe  tried  to 
persuade  her  to  eat:  she  indignantly  rejected  the  attention, 
her  rt'hole  soul  absorbed  in  her  father's  painful  situation. 

She  saw  there  was  no  hope :  even  had  she  not  understood 


48 


THE    IRIS. 


their  language,  she  could  have  read  all  in  the  fierce  glaring 
eyes  of  her  enemies,  the  impatient  gestures  of  the  men,  and 
the  eager,  energetic  movements  of  the  women.  The  latter 
were  not  idle :  they  were  making  arrangements  for  the  burn- 
ing of  the  prisoner.  Under  his  feet  they  piled  small  round 
pieces  of  wood,  with  brush  conveniently  placed,  so  as  to 
kindle  it  at  a  moment's  warning  when  all  should  be  ready. 
To  their  frequent  taunts  their  victim  paid  no  attention :  this 
only  increased  their  anxiety  to  hasten  his  sufferings,  young 
and  old  uniting  their  strength. 

One  woman  struck  him  with  the  wood  she  was  about  to 
lay  at  his  feet,  another  pierced  him  with  the  large  thorn  she 
had  taken  from  the  branch  she  held;  but  the  loudest  cries 
of  merriment  and  applause  greeted  the  appearance  of  an  old 
creature,  almost  bowed  together  with  the  weight  of  a  load 
she  was  carrying,  large  pieces  of  fat  and  skin,  which  she  was 
to  throw  in  the  blaze  at  different  times  when  it  should  be 
kindled. 

The  glare  of  day  could  not  have  made  more  perceptible 
the  horrid  faces  of  the  savages  than  did  the  brilliant  moon- 
light. Every  sound  that  was  uttered  was  more  distinct, 
from  the  intense  cpiiet  that  pervaded  all  nature.  The  face 
of  the  victim,  now  turned  to  the  sky,  now  bent  in  scorn  over 
his  encmiies ;  that  of  his  son,  pale,  proud,  and  indilferent ; 
the  unrestrained  grief  of  the  girl,  who  only  raised  her  head 
to  gaze  at  her  father,  then  trembling,  with  sobs,  hid  it  deeper 
in  her  bosom ;  the  malignant  triumph  of  the  Sioux  men,  the 
excitement  and  delight  of  the  women ; — all  these  were  dis- 
tinctly visible  in  the  glowing  brightness  of  the  night. 

Was  there  no  hope  for  the  aged  and  weary  old  man  ?  no 


WE-HAR-KA. 


49 


rce  glaring 
i  men,  and 
The  latter 
r  the  burn- 
nail  round 
,  so  as  to 
be  ready, 
iitiou:  this 
igs,  young 

s  about  to 
i  thorn  she 
idest  cries 

0  of  an  old 
of  a  load 
;h  she  was 
should  be 

erceptible 
mt  moon- 

1  distinct, 
The  face 

icorn  over 

different ; 

her  head 

it  deeper 

men,  the 

were  dis- 

ht. 

man?  no 


chance  that  these  stern,  revengeful  spirits  might  relent? 
Will  not  woman,  with  her  kind  heart  and  gentle  voice,  ask 
that  his  life  may  be  spared?  Alas!  it  is  woman's  work  that 
we  are  witnessing :  they  bound  his  limbs,  they  have  beaten 
him,  and  even  now  arc  they  disputing  for  the  privilege  of 
lighting  the  fire  which  is  to  consume  him.  Loud  cries  arise, 
but  the  contention  is  soon  quelled,  for  the  deep  bass  voice 
of  the  medicine-man  is  heard  above  theirs,  and  he  says  that 
the  newly  made  widow,  and  she  alone,  shall  start  the  blaze, 
and  then  all  may  join  in  adding  fuel  to  the  lire,  and  insult 
to  the  present  disgrace  of  the  Chippeway  warrior. 

And  now  the  brush  is  piled  round  the  wood  and  touches 
the  victim's  feet,  and  the  men  lie  still  on  the  grass,  knowing 
their  work  will  be  well  done,  and  the  women  who  are 
crowded  together  make  a  way  for  the  widow  to  advance. 
See  her !  the  tears  are  on  her  cheek,  yet  there  is  a  smile  of 
exultation  too^the  blood  is  streaming  from  her  bosom  and 
her  arms. 

With  her  left  hand  she  leads  her  young  son  forward.  In 
her  right  she  holds  a  large  and  flaming  torch  of  pine.  The 
red  light  of  the  burning  wood  contrasts  strangely  with  the 
\viiit<3  light  of  the  moon;  the  black  smoke  rises  and  is  lost 
i  i  ti.'^  fleecy  clouds  that  are  flying  through  the  air. 

Tiie  ."ilence  is  broken  only  by  the  heart-breaking  sobs  of 
tiie  Oirippeway  girl.  The  Sioux  woman  kneels,  and  care- 
fully holds  the  torch  under  the  brush  and  kindling-wood. 
She  withdraws  her  hand,  and  soon  there  is  something  beside 
soIjs  breaking  the  stillness.  The  dry  branches  snap,  and 
tlie  women  shout  and  laugh  as  they  hear  the  crackling 
sound.     The  men  join  in  a  derisive  laugh;  but  above  all  is 


50 


TUE    IRIS. 


heard  the  loud,  full  voice  of  the  victim.  His  death-chaunt 
drowns  all  other  sounds,  yet  there  is  not  a  tone  of  pain  or 
impatience  in  the  voice ;  it  is  solemn  and  dignified ;  there  is 
even  a  note  of  rapture  as  he  shouts  defiance  to  his  enemies 
and  their  cruelty. 

The  dry  twigs  snap  apart,  and  the  smoke  curls  around 
the  limbs  of  the  prisoner :  now  the  bright  red  flames  embrace 
his  form. 

The  warrior  is  still ;  he  is  collecting  his  energies  and  chal- 
lenging his  powers  of  endurance. 

Cliashe  stood  'r>  "  My  father,"  said  he,  "fled  from  the 
fire  of  the  Cliippe\  s;  but  you  like  the  fire  of  the  Dacotas, 
for  you  stand  still." 

"  The  Sioux  are  great  warriors,"  replied  the  Chippeway, 
"when  they  fight  old  men  and  children,"  looking  at  the 
same  time  towards  his  daughter. 

"  But,  is  he  an  old  man  or  a  girl  ?"  asked  Cliashe,  point- 
ing to  the  younger  Chippeway. 

"  He  is  a  great  warrior,"  said  the  father,  "  but  he  was  one 
against  many.  He  could  not  see  his  father  and  sister  scalped 
before  his  eyes.  Had  he  fought  man  to  man  he  would  have 
showed  you  the  sharp  edge  of  his  tomahawk ;  but  he  is  a 
Chippeway,  and  knows  how  to  sufler  and  to  die." 

The  noise  of  the  fire  drowned  the  old  man's  words,  for 
the  women  were  amusing  themselves  by  throwing  on  small 
pieces  of  dry  wood  and  portions  of  deer-fat,  which,  crackling 
as  it  burned,  rapidly  consumed  the  body  of  the  unfortunate 
man. 

No  suffering  had,  as  yet,  forced  from  him  any  cry  of  pain ; 
it  was  evident  that  nature  would  soon  relieve  him  of  his 


^ 


■w 


■»'• 


WE-HAR-KA. 


61 


ath-cliaunt 

of  pain  or 

J;  there  is 

lis  enemies 

rls  around 
3s  embrace 

i!  and  clial- 

i  from  the 
e  Dacotas, 

liippewaj, 
ng  at  the 

ihe,  point- 

e  was  one 
or  scalped 
3uld  have 
t  he  is  a 

vords,  for 

on  small 

crackling 

fortunate 

^  of  pain ; 
m  of  his 


agony.     His  heart  had  nigh  ceased  "beating  its  funeral 
march."    Even  he,  an  untutored  savage,  felt  that 

"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  rcturnest, 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul." 

His  fortitude  to  endure  was  increased  by  the  thought  that 
soon  the  brilliant  but  mysterious  future  would  be  opened  to 
him. 

The  Sioux  were  disappointed  at  his  courage,  and  longed 
to  have  their  gratification  completed  by  some  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  agony.  An  old  and  fierce-looking  woman  drew 
her  knife  from  her  belt,  and  springing  upon  the  high  roots 
of  the  tree,  cut  a  deep  gash  Ijetween  the  shoulders  of  the 
prisoner,  then  stooping,  she  raised  in  her  hand  a  flaming 
torch,  which  she  applied  to  the  fresh  wound  she  had  just 
made.  This  .igony  was  unendurable  :  a  death-like  struggle 
convulsed  the  heroic  countenance  of  the  sufferer;  he  uttered 
a  sharp  and  jwercing  cry ;  then,  as  if  apologizing  for  his  want 
of  firmness,  exclaimed,  "Fire  is  strong!" 

This  sufficed  for  his  enemies,  and  shouts  of  joy  echoed 
through  the  village,  while  the  agonized  daughter,  unable 
longer,  to  endure  the  dreadful  sight,  sunk  insensible  on  the 
grass  at  her  brother's  feet. 

It  was  not  long  ere  mcther  shout  announced  the  relief  of 
the  Chippejvjay. '  Thc'S^yeet  hours  of  night  had  passed  awaj- 
while  they  watched  his  noble  .firmness,  and  awaited  his  last 
breathi  ;  During. thp  last  hour.  Jong,  low,  black  clouds  had 
been  deepening  in  the  far  west ;  now  and  then  a  disiant 
murmur  was  heard,  and  faint  flashes  gleamed  ath^vart  the 
water.     A  slight  murmuring  of  the  waves  witnessed  the 


f»9 


THE    IRIS. 


rising  of  the  wind,  and  the  Sioux  separated  to  take  a  rest, 
which  they  all  neiMled. 

Seeing  that  their  other  prisoner  was  securely  bound,  they 
left  him  to  face  the  storm  and  the  hideous  spectacle  of  his 
father's  remainn.  Chashc  raised  the  lifeless  form  of  the  girl 
and  carried  her  to  his  sister's  wigwam. 

We-har-ka  had  taken  no  interest  in  the  scene  that  had 
been  enacting ;  she  slept  soundly,  fatigued  with  her  wander- 
ings on  the  prairie  jind  the  indulgence  of  her  grief.  Chashe 
laid  his  unconscious  burden  by  the  side  of  his  sister.  Ene- 
mies as  they  were,  the  looker-on  might  observe  a  strong 
bond  of  sympathy  between  them.  Their  young  faces  were 
shadowed  by  grief, — that  link  which  should  unite,  heart  to 
heart,  every  child  of  earth. 

li:  Ht  H:  4:  ^  H: 

The  low  sigh  with  which  the  Chippeway  girl  awoke  from 
her  deathlike  trance,  did  not  awaken  We-har-ka.  Starting 
up,  she  in  a  moment  recalled  the  sad  tragedy  which  had 
just  been  enacttnl  before  her  eyes,  yet  she  could  not  account 
for  her  being  where  she  was.  The  wigwam  was  dark,  ex- 
cept when  illuminated  by  vivid  flashes  of  lightning,  which 
showed  her  the  few  articles  of  furniture  and  comfort  that 
adorned  an  In<lian  woman's  home. 

The  occasional  pealing  of  tjin  :thunder»  and  We-har-ka's 
breathing,  were  the  only.Bounds.«h^ -heard.- .  A  thousand 
painful  thought;4  vlroye  slumber  •  from  her  eyelids.  Her 
father  she  knew  waii  gofl^c  sh^i  jj-'ess^d  h^r  \xQ.rd  before  her 
eyes  to  recall,  and  then  to  chase  away,  the  dreadful  memory 
that  tortured  her.  She  was  spared;  it  might  be  for  a  slave, 
or  to  b(i  the  wife  of  some  one  of  her  enemies.     Her  brother. 


WE-HAR-KA. 


63 


ake  a  rest, 

:)iind,  they 
[icle  of  his 
of  the  girl 

that  had 
sr  wander- 
'.  Chashe 
ter.  Ene- 
)  a  strong- 
faces  were 
3,  heart  to 


woke  from 
Starting 
which  had 
ot  account 
3  dark,  ex- 
ing,  which 
nfort  that 

^e-har-ka's 
•  thousand 
lids.  Her 
before  her 
il  memory 
or  a  slave, 
jr  brother, 


she  had  no  doubt,  was  still  living :  he  had  been  reserved  for 
protracted  tortures.  Overcome  by  these  thoughts  she  sank 
again  upon  the  ground,  but  not  to  sleep. 

Could  nothing  be  suggested  to  give  her  comfort?  She 
cautiously  raised  the  door  of  the  wigwam,  and  by  the  red 
lightning  she  saw  her  brother  bound  as  she  had  left  him. 
Despair  had  nearly  overpowered  her  once  more,  but  the 
natural  energy  of  her  mind  returning,  she  looked  again  to 
her  own  heart,  to  see  if  there  was  any  hope.  Should  she 
ne  er  see  again  the  home  so  dear  to  her !  Were  she  and 
her  bold  brother  to  die  by  the  hands  of  her  father's  mur- 
derers !  Oh !  that  she  possessed  a  sharp  knife,  to  sever  the 
thongs  that  bound  him,  how  soon  would  they  flee  away  as 
the  birds  do  when  winter's  winds  are  heard  from  the  north  ! 

The  idea  once  prominent  in  her  mind,  there  was  hope. 
Another  flash  showed  her  the  most  minute  objects  in  the 
wigwam.  Another  directed  her  to  the  knife  of  We-har-ka, 
which  lay  glittering  by  her  breast.  A  few  moments  of  in- 
tense thought  decided  her :  nerved  by  a  sense  of  her  own 
and  her  brother's  danger,  she  no  longer  hesitated.  What 
horrors  could  be  greater  than  those  by  which  she  was  sur- 
rounded !  What  if  she  were  detected  and  murdered  at  once  ! 
Far  better  than  to  witness  her  brother's  fate,  and  endure 
her  own. 

She  placed  herself  near  We-har-ka,  then  gently  endea- 
voured to  remove  the  knife  she  coveted.  The  young  heart 
throbbed  against  her  hand.  Again  she  endeavoured  to  slide 
the  knife  from  its  place.  We-har-ka  turned  upon  her  side 
as  if  disturbed.  After  a  few  moments  had  elapsed  she  once 
more  made  the  effort;  and  now,  as  it  is  clasped  in  her  hand, 


54 


THE    IRIS. 


her  senses  have  well-nigh  left  her,  for  this  time  she  is  suc- 
cessful. 

But,  well  she  knew  there  was  no  time  for  delay,  nor  even 
for  consideration.  The  deepest  darkness  of  night  was  now 
upon  them ;  before  long  the  morning  twilight  would  be  again 
resting  over  the  earth. 

The  perfect  and  unusual  repose  of  the  Sioux  was  in  her 
favour ;  and,  excited  even  to  desperation,  she  determined  to 
endeavour  to  free  her  brother,  and  secure  his  and  her  own 
escape. 

She  first  endeavoured  to  recall  the  situation  of  the  prin- 
cipal objects  in  the  village.  She  did  not,  however,  require 
any  effort  of  memory,  for  she  could  see  distinctly  where  her 
brother  was  bound,  and  the  path  that  led  to  this  point.  The 
storm's  spirits  were  her  friends :  without  the  lightning  she 
could  have  accomplished  nothing. 

There  was  a  turn  in  the  path  that  led  through  the  village, 
and  once  or  twice  she  was  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  She 
would  not  be  dismayed,  though  at  times  she  feared  her  ene- 
mies would  hear  the  loud  beatings  of  her  heart.  Guided  by 
the  lightning,  and  resting  for  a  moment  when  she  feared  her 
footfall  would  give  the  alarm,  she  at  length  reached  the  spot. 

There  had  been  no  rest  for  the  younger  Chippeway.  With 
the  heart-crushing  spectacle  before  bis  eyes,  he  had  only 
given  way  to  a  horror  at  his  father's  sufferings,  far  more 
dreadful  to  witness  than  to  endure.  There  was,  besides, 
the  anticipation  of  his  own. 

Again  and  again  he  looked  at  the  strong  cords  that  bound 
him.  Could  he  for  a  short  time  possess  the  knife  his  ene- 
mies had  wrested  from  him ! 


WE-HAR-KA. 


55 


■;lic  is  suc- 

,  nor  even 
:  was  now 
1  be  again 

as  in  her 

rmined  to 

her  own 

the  prin- 
r,  require 
vhere  her 
int.  The 
tning  she 

le  village, 
sed.  She 
I  her  ene- 
luided  by 
eared  her 
[  the  spot. 
ly.  With 
had  only 
far  more 
!,  besides, 

lat  bound 
'i  his  ene- 


Uscloss,  indeed,  to  him,  without  assistance  ! 

Softer  feelings,  too,  came  in  turn.  His  wife  had  Ijeen 
murdered  before  his  eyes,  his  young  son  crushed  under  the 
feet  of  those  who  now  lay  sleeping  tranquilly  around  him. 

The  weary  night  was  wearing  on.  There  would  be  no 
breaking  of  the  day  to  him.  There  was  no  hope,  but  that 
which  pointed  to  the  unkno^vn  future ;  no  light  but  that 
which  glimmered  from  the  silent  land. 

A  slight  noise  arouses  his  acute  senses,  and  he  turns  his 
head  to  that  part  of  the  A'illage  where  were  the  greatest 
number  of  lodges.  It  might  be  that  the  footstep  was  that 
of  some  one  of  his  foes,  determined  alone  to  enjoy  the  sight 
of  his  death.  Oh !  what  joy  thus  to  be  saved  the  reproaches 
of  his  enemies,  the  laughing  of  the  women,  the  sneers  of  all. 
Eagerly  he  peers  through  the  darkness,  and  the  first  bril- 
liant flash  shows  him  the  pale  face  of  his  sister,  as  she  ad- 
vances towards  him. 

Very  near  him  slept,  in  a  wigwam,  two  warriors  who  had 
the  charge  of  him.  They  might  awake  :  this  thought  made 
the  very  pulses  of  his  life  stand  still. 

For  at  once  he  understood  his  sister's  intention.  He 
knew  her  courage ;  he  also  knew  that  without  an  object  she 
would  not  be  thus  incurring  the  risk  of  arousing  their  ene- 
mies. 

Another  flash,  and  she  stood  close  by  his  side — her  hand 
was  upon  his,  as  she  felt  for  the  thongs  that  bound  him. 
One  by  one  they  were  cautiously  severed — slowly,  for  the 
slightest  noise  might  be  fiital. 

It  was  hard  work,  too,  for  the  maiden,  for  the  sinews 
were  like  iron,  and  her  strength  failed  her  under  the  re- 


56 


THE    IRIS. 


peated  efforts  she  was  obliged  to  make.  There  was  no  word 
uttered, — their  hearts  silently  conversed  with  each  other. 
Time  passed,  and  he  was  almost  free ;  he  was  himself  sever- 
ing the  last  bond  that  detained  him. 

It  yielded.  Once  more  he  could  stretch  out  his  muscular 
arm.  Grasping  his  sister  to  his  side,  covered  by  the  dark- 
ness and  the  thunder,  and  the  heavily  commencing  rain, 
they  made  their  way  under  the  edges  of  the  bluffs.  The 
young  Chippeway  knew  the  route :  a  short  peace  had  exist- 
ed between  the  tribes,  and  he  had  more  than  once  passed 
through  the  village. 

At  first  their  progress  was  slow  and  deliberate.  There 
was  no  faltering,  though.  They  were  without  weapons, 
with  the  exception  of  We-har-ka's  knife.  Hunger  and 
faintness  were  oppressing  them,  but  the  danger  they  were 
in  braced  their  hearts.  As  they  began  to  leave  the  Sioux 
village  in  the  distance,  hope  gave  vigour  to  their  frames. 

After  the  day  broke,  the  clouds  were  scattering,  and  the 
sunbeams  were  dotting  the  hills  that  lay  between  them  and 
their  foes.  Still  they  could  not  rest.  The  wild  plum  was 
their  only  nourishment ;  nor  was  it  until  night  had  again 
shrouded  the  earth,  and  the  young  man  laid  his  sister 
in  the  hospitable  lodge  of  a  Chippeway  village,  that  he 
realized  that  he  had  been  a  prisoner  and  was  again  free. 

It  were  impossible  to  describe  the  rage  of  the  Sioux  on 
ascertaining  the  escape  of  their  prisoners.  Chashe  v/ent 
soon  after  their  flight  to  his  sister's  wigwam.  His  sleep 
had  been  restless,  he  thought  of  his  dead  relative,  but  he 
thought  more  of  the  Chippeway  girl,  whom  he  had  resolved  to 


^^P- 


WE-HAR-KA. 


57 


IS  no  word 
ich  other, 
iself  sever- 

muscular 
the  dark- 
cing  rain, 
iffs.  The 
had  exist- 
ice  passed 

3.  There 
weapons, 
nger  and 
they  were 
the  Sioux 
'rames. 
,  and  the 
them  and 
plum  was 
lad  again 
his  sister 
,  that  he 
ti  free. 
Sioux  on 
she  \ient 
His  sleep 
e,  but  he 
^solved  to 


adopt*  in  place  of  his  young  wife,  who  had  died  recently. 
Seeing  his  sister  alone,  he  anxiously  inquired  of  her  what  had 
become  of  the  girl.  What  was  his  surprise  when  she  told  him 
there  had  been  no  one  there ;  that  when  she  arose,  the  storm 
was  passing  over,  but  it  was  still  dark,  but  that  no  one  had 
been  in  the  lodge  since  then.  Her  brother,  much  irritated, 
contradicted  her,  using  the  most  violent  language ;  yet  it  was 
evident  to  him  that  his  sister  was  unconscious  of  his  having 
laid  the  girl  by  her  side. 

He  turned  away,  and  sought  the  scene  of  the  last  night's 
torture.  There  were  the  burnt  fagots,  and  the  ghastly 
remains.  The  smoke  still  curled  and  slowly  rose  from  the 
ashes,  but  neither  of  the  prisoners  was  to  be  seen.  The 
thongs  with  which  he  had  been  bound  lay  on  the  ground. 

There  was  no  room  for  doubt :  brother  and  sister  had  fled ; 
and  they  lived  so  near  the  borders  of  the  Chippeway  country 
that  there  was  every  reason  to  believe  they  were  beyond 
the  reach  of  recovery. 

Disappointment  and  rage  overspread  his  features.  He 
threw  up  the  door  of  the  lodge  where  the  sentinels  still 
slept  calmly.  Pushing  the  foremost  over  with  his  foot, 
"  Where  is  your  prisoner  ?"  said  he.  "  You  are  brave  men, 
that  cannot  take  care  of  one  Chippeway !" 

Starting  to  their  feet,  the  s&ntinels  at  once  became  aware 
of  what  had  occurred.  "  Where  is  the  girl  ?"  they  asked  of 
Chashe. 

*  Young  persons  taken  prisoners  in  battle  are  often  adopted,  in  the  place 
of  some  lost  relative.  They  are  then  treated  with  the  kindness  usuallj- 
shown  towards  a  dear  and  valued  friend. 


58 


THE    IRIS. 


"  Tlicy  are  both  gone,"  said  ho,  ''  and  they  must  both 
have  passed  near  you." 

"  And  where  were  you  when  the  girl  went  ?"  rcpHed  one 
of  the  sentinels.  "  You  took  her  ofl'  with  you,  and  if  wo 
could  not  keep  the  man,  you  could  not  keep  the  woman." 

The  inmates  of  the  different  lodges  came  forward  to  learn 
what  had  happened.  Here  advances  a  brave,  followed  by 
his  young  sons.  The  women  throw  down  their  bundles  of 
sticks,  to  feast  themselves  with  a  sight  of  the  Chippeways 
ere  they  commenced  their  usual  avocations ;  but  they  only 
expressed  their  sorrow  by  groans  of  disappointment.  It  was 
decided  that  the  fugitives  should  be  jjursued.  A  party  of 
the  younger  men  set  out  without  delay ;  they  were  warned, 
however,  not  to  go  too  near  their  enemy's  country. 

Glowing  with  the  expectation  of  recapturing  the  prisoners, 
and,  it  might  be,  of  bringing  home  more  scalps,  they  were 
anxious  to  set  out.  The  old  medicine-men  reminded  them 
of  their  duty,  gave  them  advice  suitable  to  the  occasion,  and 
then,  with  uplifted  hands,  called  upon  Wakeen  Tonca, 
Gioat  Spirit,  Father,  to  help  them  against  their  enemies. 

The  close  of  another  evening  found  the  Sioux  quiet,  and 
busy  in  drying  venison,  and  the  usual  occupations  of  the 
season.  With  the  day,  however,  were  closing  their  labours. 
Often  a  cry  of  lamentation  was  heard  from  the  lodge  of  the 
Sioux  who  had  recently  been  killed  in  battle. 

The  body  of  Eagle  Eye  was  deposited  upon  a  high  scaf- 
folding. His  two  children  w^ere  still  engaged  at  the  burial- 
ground.  All  cries  of  sorrow,  usual  at  such  times,  were 
liushed.  The  sides  of  the  high  hills  were  tinged  with  gold 
and  crimson.     Some  of  these  "mountains  rose  high,  high 


WE-IIAR-KA. 


69 


lUst  both 

plied  one 

nd  if  we 

Oman." 

to  learn 

owed  by 

undies  of 

ppeways 

lioy  only 

.    It  was 

party  of 

warned, 

risoners, 
ley  were 
ed  them 
don,  and 
Tonca, 
miies. 
liet,  and 
s  of  the 
labours, 
e  of  the 

gh  scaf- 
j  burial- 
!S,  were 
ith  gold 
h,  high 


up,  until  they  could  look  into  the  heavens  and  hear  God  in 
the  storm."  The  river  was  as  calm  as  if  no  sscenc  of  cruelty 
had  ever  been  enacted  on  its  banks. 

Round  the  frame  where  Eagle  Eye's  form  was  laid  hung 
his  medicine-bag.  Chashti  placed  a  vessel  of  water  near  the 
body.  We-har-ka  lightly  lifted  the  bark  dish  of  buflalo-meat* 
and  wild  rice,  where  the  soul  of  the  departed  warrior  could 
take  it,  and  be  refreshed  when  tired  and  hungry.  Very 
near  him  was  buried  his  wife.  Her  bones  had  been  ga- 
thered and  buried  under  the  ground  ;  branches  of  trees  and 
solid  pieces  of  wood  had  been  placed  crosswise  over  her 
grave,  to  protect  it  from  the  wolves. 

The  graves  and  scaffolds  were  continued  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  bluff,  while  flowers  of  the  most  brilliant  hue  sprung 
up  at  the  feet  of  the  mourners,  and  clung  to  tlie  low  small 
bushes  that  grew  on  the  hilltop.  The  brotlier  and  sister 
were  preparing  to  come  down,  when  We-har-ka  perceived 
the  priest  seated  by  one  of  the  graves,  apparently  uncon- 
scious of  all  that  was  passing  around  him.  She  approached 
him,  and  softly  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  He 
turned  to  her  slowly,  as  if  aroused  from  a  dream  of  long 
past  years,  and  followed  them  to  the  village. 

His  lodge  was  near  hers,  and  she  listened  to  his  full  rich 
voice  as  he  chaunted  the  vespers.  Totally  ignorant  of  what 
he  said,  she  was  yet  soothed  by  the  sweet  sounds,  and  after 
they  had  ceased,  unobserved  by  others,  she  sought  him  in 

*  The  Sioux  believe  in  the  duality  of  the  soul, — one  going  to  the  land  of 
spirits,  while  one  hovers  round  the  grave,  requiring  nourishment.  Some 
few  of  their  wise  people  believe  that  each  body  claims  more  than  two  souls, 
assigning  an  occupation  for  each;  but  this  is  not  the  prevailing  opinion. 


60 


THE    IRIS. 


his  lodge,  and  night  was  closing  over  the  earth  as  the 
voices  of  the  two  mingled  in  earnest  conversation. 

H:  H:  ^  H:  :{:  # 

The  Jesuit  had  long  been  anxious  to  take  advantage  of 
the  first  opportunity  that  offered  to  return  to  Canada. 
Here,  his  time  was  wasted  and  his  health  impaired  to  no 
purpose.  He  had  succeeded  in  learning  the  language  of  the 
savages,  so  as  to  converse  with  them  tolerably;  but  his  mis- 
sion was  as  useless  here  as  it  would  have  been  among  the 
wild  beasts  of  Africa. 

Constantly  exposed  to  danger,  without  the  means  of 
living,  except  what  he  received  from  We-har-ka,  and  occa- 
sionally from  others,  his  time  unoccupied,  his  life  was  a 
burden.  His  health  was  not  strong  enough  to  enable  him 
to  join  in  the  hardy  exercises  and  sports  of  the  red  men. 
How  anxiously,  then,  did  he  await  the  means  of  deliverance. 

There  was  an  occasional  intercourse  with  the  tribes  that 
lived  in  the  region  of  the  great  lakes :  in  this  way  he  had 
come  among  the  Sioux,  and  he  hoped  thus  to  return  to 
Acadie.  He  passed  hour  after  hour  watching  the  approach 
of  canoes,  hoping  to  recognise  the  tall,  gaunt  forms  of  the 
Hurons,  or  some  of  those  with  whom  the  Sioux  were  on 
friendly  t  )rms.  Over  but  one  human  being,  We-har-ka, 
had  he  acquired  the  slightest  influence.  We  have  before 
alluded  to  the  rivalry  of  the  two  young  men,  Chashe  and 
the  Beaver,  for  the  disputed  honour  of  being  the  war-chief  of 
the  band.  They  belonged  io  opposite  clans,  which  were 
almost  equally  divided.  It  appeared  evident  that  it  could 
only  be  decided  by  some  act  of  bravery  performed  by  one 
of  the  parties. 


as  the 


atage  of 
Canada, 
d  to  no 
?e  of  the 
his  mis- 
ong  the 

eans  of 
id  occa- 
!  was  a 
)le  him 
id  men. 
Iterance. 
»es  that 
he  had 
turn  to 
)13roach 
!  of  the 
^ere  on 
har-ka, 
!  before 
ihe  and 
3hiefof 
li  were 
;  could 
by  one 


'I* 


WE-HAR-KA. 


61 


The  aspirants  had  equal  claims.  They  were  each  daring 
in  the  greatest  degree.  Young,  athletic^  inured  to  fatigue 
and  hardships,  thirsting  like  the  war-horse  for  tht  battle. 
Clmshe  owed  his  reputation  in  »ome  degree  to  the  reputa- 
tion of  his  grandfather,  while  on  the  other  hand  the  Beaver's 
courage  made  him  feared  by  his  own  and  the  opposite  clan. 

The  long-continued  feud  between  th(j  two  clans  had  been 
more  violent  than  ever  since  the  death  of  the  younger  bro- 
ther of  Chashe.  His  sickness  was  attributed  to  a  spell 
having  been  cast  upon  him  by  some  one  of  the  other  clan. 
Eagle  Eye  attributed  his  death  to  the  family  of  the  Beaver; 
and  so  great  was  the  hatred  of  the  two  clans*  that  murder 
after  murder  occurred,  and  every  sickness  and  disaster  was 
charged  upon  some  individual,  and  thus  revenge  was  con- 
stantly sought. 

Especially  was  Eagle  'Eye  dreaded ;  his  powers  as  a  me- 
dicine-man were  rated  so  high,  that  in  passing  by  him  many 
avoided  his  observation — they  dreaded  lest  he  should,  by  an 
undefined  power,  bring  upon  them  the  wrath  of  an  evil 
spirit.  And  each  warrior  wore  beneath  his  richly  embroi- 
dered hunting-dress  a  charm,  to  protect  him  from  a  machi- 
nation that  he  feared. 

Yet  did  the  Beaver  love  the  sister  of  his  rival,  and  he 
had  induced  her  to  defy  her  brother's  hot  temper,  and  pro- 
mise him  all  her  young  affection.  Love  had  made  him  elo- 
quent, and  he  persuaded  her  out  of  all  the  opinions  she  had 

*  In  a  Sioux  village  there  are  diflFcrent  clans,  known  by  the  peculiar  me- 
dicijic  that  each  uses,  each  clan  claiming  superior  power,  resting  in  a  spell, 
which  the  medicine  man  or  woman  can  throw  upon  those  of  the  opposite 
party. 


„•••«'•'•"' 


62 


THE    IRIS. 


imbibed  from  the  time  she  was  capable  of  forming  one ;  while 
he,  blind  to  the  attractions  of  all  others,  could  only  see 
grace  in  her  person. 

It  was  not  likely  his  life  would  be  safe  should  he  marry 
her,  and  remain  among  his  own  people ;  and  could  he  yield 
the  chances  of  his  high  position  among  the  braves  with 
whom  he  had  grown  up  to  the  love  of  woman  ?  He  knew 
that  We-har-ka  would  leave  all  for  him.  The  only  ques- 
tion was,  could  he  make  the  sacrifice  ? 

They  had  closely  kept  their  secret.  We-har-ka  had  been 
promised  to  a  young  man  of  her  grandftither's  clan.  She 
had  from  time  to  time  delayed  the  marringe,  by  her  influence 
over  the  old  man.  The  husband  they  had  chosen  for  her 
was  the  tried  friend  of  her  brother,  styled  among  the  In- 
dians, a  comrade.  Weil  did  Y  e-har-ka  know  how  deter- 
mined was  her  brother's  tamper,  and  that  he  would  force 
her  into  the  marriage  after  her  grandfather's  death,  and 
that,  unless  by  some  groat  effort,  there  was  no  hope. 

On  the  night  of  the  return  of  the  party,  and  the  burning 
of  the  prisoner,  she  had,  indeed,  gone  to  the  prairies  to  weep; 
but  it  was  as  much  over  the  difficulties  of  her  position  as 
the  death  of  her  relative.  It  was  not  without  an  object  that 
she  had  come  forward  to  meet  the  war-party,  and  told  them 
her  intention.  When  the  excitement  of  the  burning  of  the 
Chippeway  was  at  its  height,  her  lover  had  left  the  group 
of  young  men,  and  a  short  time  brought  him  to  We-har-ka  s 
side.  After  a  few  moments  passed  in  the  joy  of  reunion, 
We-har-ka  told  him  that  her  fate  must  soon  be  decided,  and 
implored  him  to  take  her  away  from  their  home,  as  their 
only  chance  of  happiness.     They  could  go,  she  said,  among 


'^ 


■^^n 


WE-nAR-KA. 


63 


the  Sioux  who  lived  on  the  Missouri,  and  there  live  free 
from  care. 

The  young  man  did  not  answer  her  at  first,  and  We-har-ka, 
startled  with  the  boldness  of  her  own  proposal,  awaited  his 
iinswer,  standing.  Her  arms  were  clasped  over  her  breast, 
and  her  eyes  bent  to  the  ground :  the  moonlight  glittered 
on  the  wampum  which  lay  on  her  bosom,  and  flashed  from 
the  silver  cross  suspended  from  her  neck. 

At  length  the  Indian  broke  out  into  angry  abuse  of  her 
brother  and  all  connected  with  her.  The  colour  varied  in 
her  cheek,  and  her  lips  were  more  firmly  compressed  when 
he  charged  them  with  cowardice,  but  still  she  spoke  not. 
She  had  counted  the  cost  of  his  love,  and  knew,  that  to  retain 
it,  she  must  resign  even  the  natural  impulses  of  her  heart. 

She  waited  until  the  torrent  of  his  passion  had  ceased, 
then  pointing  to  the  dark  clouds  that  were  gathering  in  the 
west,  reminded  him  that  they  would  l.)e  missed.  The  shout 
that  came  from  the  village  warned  them  too  of  the  necessity 
of  separation.  He  then  marked  the  agitation  of  her  manner, 
bade  her  return  home,  telling  her  that,  aiicr  her  father  was 
buried,  he  would  come  to  the  lodge  of  the  Jesuit :  at  what 
time  he  could  not  say,  but  not  until  some  amusements  should 
engage  the  Sioux:  then  he  would  tell  her  his  determination. 
We-har-ka,  overpowered  with  fatigue  on  her  return  to  her 
lodge,  slept  soundly,  even  with  the  Chippeway  girl  by  her 
side. 


« 


« 


We-har-ka  sat  in  the  wigwam  of  the  Jesuit,  listening  to 
the  accounts  of  the  grandeur  of  the  churches  and  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  altars  in  the  country  where  Father  Blanc 


64 


THE    IRIS. 


had  passed  his  youth.  He  pointed  to  the  small  figure  of 
Christ,  on  the  altar  of  cedar  wood,  which  he  had  con- 
structed, then  told  her  of  the  large  one  of  gold  which  he 
had  often  knelt  before  in  assisting  in  the  ceremonies  of  the 
church.  We-har-ka,  whose  thoughts  had  been  wandering 
in  quest  of  her  lover,  asked  him  again  of  the  ever  interest- 
ing story  of  the  death  and  sufferings  of  the  Saviour.  Like 
those  who  witnessed  the  crucifixion,  she  wondered  that  that 
Great  Being  should  submit  to  such  indignities.  Her  religion 
would  have  justified  resenting  them.  Yet  she  did  not  believe 
it  was  true,  loving  still  to  hear  it  told  over  and  over  again ; 
especially  was  it  agreeable  to  her  now  to  while  away  the 
hour  until  her  lover,  under  pretence  of  speaking  to  the 
priest,  should  find  a  chance  of  acquainting  her  with  the 
plans  he  had  formed.  She  looked  again  at  the  familiar 
objects  on  the  altar.  Again,  as  ever,  she  told  the  priest  he 
was  good  and  kind,  but  that  she  knew  the  Great  Spirit  was 
the  father  of  all.  Father  Blanc's  insinuating  eloquence 
touched  her  feelings,  but  her  heart  was  unaffected :  yet  the 
father,  glad  of  a  listener,  even  in  the  untutored  Indian  girl, 
dwelt  on  scenes  long  past,  and  it  might  be  forgotten  by  all 
but  him. 

When  the  moon  rose  they  sat  outside  the  lodge  on  a  mat. 
They  were  now  both  silent.  The  thoughts  of  the  Jesuit 
wandered  far  and  wide:  memory  transported  him  to  the 
forests  of  Languedoc. 

There  he  pursued  his  studies,  full  of  high  hope  and  youth- 
ful happiness.  He  wandered  through  the  most  beautiful 
scenes  of  nature,  and  there  was  one  by  his  side ;  her  smile 
was  bent  upon  him,  as  she  parted  the  long  ringlets  from  her 


.it 


■<*■ 


m 


WE-HAR-KA. 


65 


figure  of 
lad  con- 
^hich  he 
3s  of  the 
iindering 
interest- 
r.  Like 
hat  that 
'  religion 
t  believe 
r  again ; 
way  the 
f  to  the 
i^ith  the 

familiar 

• 

)riest  he 
)irit  was 
oquence 
yet  the 
[an  girl, 
a  by  all 

L  a  mat. 

a  Jesuit 

to  the 

I  youth- 
eautiful 
ir  smile 
om  her 


brow.  He  gazed  again  as  he  was  wont  when  he  bade  her 
o-ood  night,  and  wondered  if  angels  smiled  so  sweetly  when 
they  bore  the  dead  to  the  regions  of  Paradise.  Memory 
changes  the  scene.  Death  and  desolation  are  met ;  dark- 
ness and  beauty  are  blended  strangely.  Those  angel  eyes 
are  closed,  but  the  sweet  smile  is  there. 

Hushed  lips  bend  over  the  bier  where  roses  are  lavishly 
strewed.  Echoes  of  grief  are  heard  along  the  halls,  as  they 
pass  on  with  their  beautiful  burden  to  the  house  of  death. 
Then  come  the  long  nights  of  sorrow,  the  vigils  of  despair, 
the  renouncing  of  the  hopes  and  pleasures  of  life :  then  the 
morbid  restlessness,  the  wish  for  death  and  forgetfulness. 
Afterwards,  the  solitary  life  of  the  student,  then  the  seclu- 
sion of  the  cloister,  and  the  longing  to  wear  out  life  under  a 
different  sky.  He  traced  again  his  course,  until  he  sat  here, 
a  wanderer,  by  the  side  of  the  Indian  girl. 

Her  eyes  were  wandering  over  the  brilliant  scenes.  The 
stars  seemed  almost  to  rest  on  the  body  of  her  relative,  as 
she  looked  towards  the  burial-ground  where  she  had  passed 
the  day. 

The  branches  of  the  large  trees  were  in  perfect  repose : 
there. was  no  wind  to  disturb  them ;  and  the  gorgeous  reflec- 
tion of  the  moon  on  the  river  seemed  almost  to  illuminate 
the  village. 

Richly  endowed  with  the  poetry  of  nature,  the  anxious 
girl  felt  calmed  by  the  beauty  and  tranquillity  of  the  scene. 
The  evening  was  passing  away,  and  he  had  not  come.  Con- 
fident of  his  affection,  she  determined  to  be  patient.  Some- 
times her  friends  would  pass  along  and  converse  with  her ; 
but  they  knew  her  heart  was  sad,  deprived  of  the  afifectionate 


66 


THE    IRIS. 


caresses  of  her  relative.  Her  brother  she  had  not  seen  since 
they  had  returned  together  from  the  burial-ground,  but  she 
supposed  he  was  in  one  of  the  groups  which  were  enjoying 
the  lovely  quiet  of  the  evening. 

Suddenly  a  wild  and  piercing  cry  arrests  her  attention. 
Starting  to  her  feet,  almost  frantic  for  a  moment,  she  re- 
cognised her  brother's  voice.  Again  it  fell  in  one  long,  rich, 
full  cry  on  her  ear. 

There  was  something  unusual  in  that  sound.  There  was 
no^  defiance,  no  fear,  no  excitement  in  the  voice.  It  was  as 
if  the  bald  eagle,  long  watching  and  hovering  over  its  prey, 
had  at  length  planted  her  talons  in  its  side,  and  was  fleeing 
away  far  from  human  hope  or  protection.  So  clear  was  the 
sound,  so  long  its  echo,  that  some  doubted  if  it  were  indeed 
a  human  voice. 

Not  so  with  We-har-ka:  pressing  her  clasped  hands 
tightly  over  her  heart,  turning  her  marble  face  to  the 
heavens,  she  knew  it  all.  That  was  not  the  cry  indicating 
the  presence  of  enemies ;  her  heart  would  not  have  quailed 
before  it  as  it  did  now :  it  was  the  announcement  of  the 
gratification  of  a  long-cherished  revenge.  Her  lover's  ab- 
sence was  explained.  Only  a  moment,  however,  was  given 
to  conflicting  thoughts.  The  young  girl  moved  forward,  and, 
as  it  were,  pioneered  the  others  to  the  quarter  from  whence 
the  sound  proceeded.  There  was  no  shrinking  in  her  slight 
form :  she  might  have  been  taken  for  some  spirit  returned 
to  earth  to  accomplish  some  high  purpose,  unconscious  of 
aught  save  its  own  mission. 

Passing  on  to  a  rock,  whence  you  could  see  the  beautiful 
valle;  that  spread  out  before  them,  the  whole  story  was  told 
in  a  moment. 


■JM 


Jen  since 
but  she 
enjoying 

ttention. 
,  she  re- 
ng,  rich, 

lere  was 
t  was  as 
its  prey, 
s  fleeing 
was  the 
3  indeed 

I   hands 
to  the 
dicating 
quailed 
t  of  the 
er's  ab- 
ts  given 
rd,  and, 
whence 
r  slight 
Jturned 
;ious  of 

autiful 
as  told 


WE-HAR-KA. 


6T 


Chash6  stood  as  if  expecting  witnesses ;  in  his  bearing 
there  was  a  frightful  exultation  that  ill  accorded  with  the 
other  circumstances  of  his  position.  In  his  hand  he  held  the 
knife,  from  which  drops  of  blood  were  slowly  falling  on  his 
dress.  He  watched  them  with  a  savage  laugh  of  delight. 
His  figure  seemed  taller,  by  half,  in  the  moonlight,  its  long 
shadow  fell  so  darkly  over  the  grass.  He  was  not  alone, 
for  easily  could  all  recognise  the  manly  and  noble  form  of 
the  man  he  hated,  at  his  feet.  Well  they  know  that  it  was 
death  alone  that  could  keep  him  there.  The  blood  w(is 
oozing  from  his  heart :  and  they  could,  even  at  the  distance 
from  whence  they  first  saw  him,  distinguish  the  marble 
paleness  of  his  features. 

A  loud  shout  now  arose  from  the  Indians  as  they  pressed 
forward.  They  were  divided  as  to  the  interest  in  this  scene. 
The  friends  of  Chashe  exulted  with  him,  and  those  of  the 
other  clan  called  for  revenge.  It  seemed  uncertain  how  the 
excitement  of  the  crowd  would  show  itself,  when  it  was 
diverted  for  a  moment  by  the  appearance  of  We-har-ka. 
She  rapidly  slid  down  the  rocks,  which  it  was  necessary  to 
pass,  in  order  to  reach  the  two  young  men.  None  of  them 
could  keep  up  with  her,  so  quick  and  shadowy  were  her 
movements. 

Throwing  herself  on  the  ground  beside  her  lover,  she  made 
the  most  frantic  efibrts  to  staunch  the  flowing  of  the  wound. 
She  tore  up  the  grass,  and  pressing  it  together,  placed  it 
against  the  wound ;  but  the  blood  continued  to  flow  in  spite 
of  all  her  efforts.  Her  bearing,  calm  and  collected  at  first, 
now  changed  with  the  evident  hopelessness  of  the  case ;  her 
wild  and  frantic  screams  pierced  the  air  as  she  threw  herself 

6 


68 


THE    IRIS. 


upon  his  body.  Her  brother  seized  her  roughly  by  the  arm, 
indignant  at  this  show  of  affection ;  but  she  shrank  from  his 
touch,  and  again  springing  to  his  side,  before  he  could  divine 
her  purpose,  she  had  wrested  the  knife  from  his  grasp  and 
pierced  it  deep  in  her  own  breast.  Chash^  caught  it  from 
her  ere  she  could  a  second  time  bury  it  in  her  bosom ;  but 
she  glided  from  him  and  ascended  the  bluff  over  which  she 
had  passed  to  reach  the  dreadful  spot.  A  stream  of  blood 
follows  in  her  path.  Now  she  has  reached  the  edge  of  the 
precipice  :  she  springs,  and  the  noise  of  the  dashing  waves 
mingles  with  the  cry  of  horror  that  arises  from  the  witnesses 
of  her  self-destruction. 

The  Indians  were  obliged  to  return  to  their  village  in 
order  to  arrive  at  the  place  where  were  their  canoes.  Every 
effort  was  made,  but  in  vain,  to  recover  the  body  of  the  un- 
fortunate girl.     She  was  never  seen  again. 

Father  Blanc  soon  after  returned  to  Acadie  with  a  party 
who  were  going  that  route.  He  was  thankful  to  leave  the 
scene  of  such  accumulated  horrors.  He  had  become  warmly 
attached  to  the  young  Sioux  maiden,  whose  early  sorrows 
had  been  impressed  on  his  memory.  The  horrors  of  that 
night  were  written  in  characters  of  blood :  nor  did  he  ever 
relate  the  incident  without  trembling  at  the  recollection. 
He  found  in  the  Canada  Indians  more  tractable  scholars, — 
at  least,  when  they  feared  the  cannon  of  the  French. 

There  is  reason  to  conclude  that  the  efforts  of  the  Jesuits 
among  the  aborigines  of  our  country  left  no  abiding  impres- 
sion of  good :  but,  like  the  waters  which  the  tall  ships  have 
passed  over,  they  were  agitated  for  a  while  from  their  usual 
course,  then  rt  turned  to  their  restless  surging  as  before. 


7  the  arm, 
k  from  his 
iild  divine 
grasp  and 
t  it  from 
som;  but 
ivhich  she 
L  of  blood 
Ige  of  the 
ng  waves 
witnesses 


t^illage  in 
.  Every 
)f  the  un- 

li  a  party 
leave  the 
e  warmly 
Y  sorrows 
's  of  that 
I  he  ever 
oUection. 
holars, — 
3h. 

le  Jesuits 
g  impres- 
lips  have 
leir  usual 
jfore. 


■4 


I 


.A^ 


"gwipipp 


Thd'ee  miles  below  Trie  Palls  of  S^Anthony. 


PA 


r.   <; 


"^im 


•a  i- 


THE  LAUGHING  WATERS. 


BY  MBS.    MAET  EASTMAN. 


A  few  miles  ftom  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  are  The  Little  Falls,  or,  as  the  Sioux  call  them,  The 

Laughing  Waters. 

Do  you  know  where  the  waters  laugh  ? 

Have  you  seen  where  they  playfully  fall  ? 
Hid  from  the  sun  by  the  forest  trees  green, 
(Though  its  rays  do  pierce  the  vines  between,) 
Dancing  with  joy,  till,  night-like,  a  screen 
Comes  down  from  the  heavens  at  the  whippoorwill's  call. 

Come  with  me,  then,  we  will  tread 

On  a  carpet  of  long  grass  and  flowers. 
The  wild  lady's  slipper  we'll  pluck  as  it  droops. 
We  will  watch  the  proud  eagle,  as  from  heaven  she  stoops, 
A  seat  we  will  take  by  the  dark  leafy  nooks. 
Where  a  fairy  might  while  away  summer's  bright  hours. 

From  on  high,  the  gay  waters  come ! 

At  first,  how  they  lazily  creep 
O'er  embedded  rocks,  while  agates  so  bright 
Here  and  there  greet  the  sun,  by  noonday's  strong  light. 


70 


THE    IRIS. 


And  again  dimly  glance  when  stars  come  at  night, 
To  watch  where  the  Father  of  Waters'  waves  sleep. 

How  mildly  they  laugh  as  they  haste ! 

Now  they  near  the  spot  where  they  will  spring, 
Lightly  clearing  the  distance  to  the  pebbles  below. 
Where,  tired  with  the  effort,  more  calmly  they  flow. 
While  the  glistening  spray,  and  the  foam  white  as  snow, 
Their  light  o'er  the  rocks  and  the  dancing  waves  fling. 

At  evening  how  often  will  come 

The  wild  deer  to  drink  and  to  rest ; 
Till  frightened  away  by  the  nighthawk's  loud  scream, 
They  flee  to  the  shades  where  the  wood  spirits  dream, 
And  sink  to  repose  by  the  moonUght's  fair  beam, 
Like  the  babe  by  its  mother's  soft  smile  lulled  to  rest. 

And  here  does  the  tall  warrior  stand, 

With  the  maiden  he  loves  by  his  side ! 
He  tells  her  to  list  while  the  fairies  do  quaff" 
Their  cupful,  and  shout,  and  then  wildly  laugh. 
For  they  know  that  she  leans  on  his  love  like  a  staff", 
Which  will  ever  support  her  in  life's  changing  tide. 


'Twould  be  well,  did  ye  weep,  waters  bright ! 

Soon  no  more  to  thy  banks  will  they  come, — 
The  maiden  who  loves,  or  the  warrior  so  brave, 
The  wild  deer  at  eve,  in  thy  waters  to  lave. 
The  song-bird  to  dip  its  bright  wing  in  thy  wave. 
When  the  shadows  that  fall  with  the  night  are  all  gone. 


THE    LAUGHING    WATERS. 


71 


The  Indian's  reproach  ye  might  hear, 

Did  ye  listen,  fair  waves,  to  the  sound ! 
Are  you  gay,  when  you  know  of  the  tears  we  have  shed, 
When  profaned  are  the  graves  of  our  fathers  long  dead, 
When  haunted  our  lands,  by  the  white  man's  proud  tread, 
As  he  passes  o'er  rock  and  o'er  prairie  and  mound  ? 


For  ages  we've  loved  thy  fair  stream ! 

No  more  can  we  claim  thee,  no  more 
Will  the  warrior  sing  his  war-song  in  thy  ears, 
Will  the  mother  who  comes  for  her  child  to  shed  tears, 
Will  the  maiden  who  prays  to  the  spirit  she  fears, 
Gaze  on  thy  bright  waves,  or  rest  by  thy  shore  ? 


O-KO-PEE. 


A  MIGHTY  HUNTER  OF  THE  SIOUX. 


BT  MnS.    MARY  EASTMAN. 


■a 


.* 
.» 
* 


It  is  impossible  for  one  possessed  of  kind  and  generous 
feelings  to  pass  a  grave  without  mournful  reflections. 
Though  a  stately  monument  rise  over  it,  it  covers  the  work 
of  death.  The  mouldering  form  was  once  as  full  of  joy  and 
care,  of  tears  and  rejoicings,  as  we; — a  being  who  per- 
formed his  part  in  the  theatre  of  life,  but  who  has  now. 
for  ever,  taken  his  place  behind  the  closed  curtain.  And  if 
it  Ije  the  resting-place  of  the  poor  and  unknown,  we  must 
feel  too :  the  rude  stone  at  the  head,  the  weeds  springing 
up,  the  indifference  of  the  merry  children  as  they  pla}' 
around  it,  do  not  take  from  the  claim  that  was  once  pos- 
sessed by  the  form  that  is  fast  mingling  with  its  native 
earth,  to  have  been  one  of  the  many  toilers  after  a  happiness 
never  obtained,  a  rest  never  enjoyed  on  earth  !  How  have 
passed  away  many  of  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Some  have 
noble  monuments.  Egypt,  Greece,  Rome,  Palmyra,  and 
the  Aztecs,  who  flourished  upon  our  own  shores — gems  of 
wealth  and  learning  are  heaped  upon  their  graves ;  the  un- 
dying wreath  of  fame  crowns  their  memory.  The  older  the 
world,  the  better  they  will  be  known.     As  time  advances, 


i 

I 


I 


'■$ 


0-KO-PEE. 


73 


I 
J 


SO  will  increase  our  knowledge  of  their  history  and  laws — 
their  hieroglyphics  will  be  understood,  throwing  light  upon 
things  hitherto  a  mystery  to  us. 

But  not  so  with  our  Indian  nations ;  they  must  depart 
with  hardly  a  memorial  of  their  existence.  Few  now  care 
to  learn  aught  that  one  day  may  be  spoken  in  memory 
of  a  noble  people  passed  away ;  few  now  reflect  that  the 
ci.ul  of  this  people  stands  winged  for  its  flight. 

H:  H:  :S:  4t  4:  >H 

Some  recollections  of  the  time  passed  among  the  North- 
western Indians  are  very  delightful  to  me,  but  many  are 
equally  sad — none  more  so  than  the  history  of  a  poor  idiot 
creature  with  whom  ^ve  were  well  acquainted. 

0-ko-pee,  "  The  Nest."  I  have  often  reflected  upon  his 
eventful  life,  and  melancholy  death — his  patience  and  hu- 
mility, the  muscular  strength  of  his  form,  and  the  passion- 
less expression  of  his  features.  The  mortal  tenement  was 
able  and  healthful  when  I  first  knew  him,  but  the  spiritual 
no  longer  animated  it ;  indeed,  as  a  companion  he  was  no 
better  than  the  game  he  hunted,  for  his  mind  was  gone. 

When  overcome  with  hunger  he  w^ould  tell  us  how  very 
long  it  was  since  he  had  eaten.  He  knew,  too,  when  he 
was  cold,  for  he  would  direct  our  attention  to  his  threadbare 
clothing.  Like  the  prairie  deer  or  buftalo.  he  would  seek 
shelter  from  the  storm  or  burning  sun ;  but  though  he  might 
once  have  reflected  upon  the  occupations  of  a  disembodied 
sjiirit,  when  it  should  be  released  from  the  shackles  of  earth, 
he  had  long  since  ceased  to  do  so.  His  mind  floated  on  the 
stormy  waves  of  life,  like  the  wreck  at  sea,  flir  alike  from 
light,  hope,  or  help. 


74 


THE    IRIS. 


His  life  was  an  eventful  one  for  an  Indian's.  Born  when 
the  Sioux  were  not  dependent  upon  white  people,  he  trod 
his  native  earth  with  the  consciousness  of  owning  it.  He 
routed  up  the  timid  grouse  from  the  prairies,  and  brought 
down  the  red-head  and  wood-duck  on  the  wing,  never  fear- 
ing that  they  and  he  would  be  chased  from  the  haunts  they 
loved.  Often,  when  a  small  boy,  would  he  kill  the  plover 
and  woodcock  in  numbers,  carrying  them  to  his  mother  as 
trophies  of  his  skill.  How  gaily  he  laughed  as  for  the  first 
time  he  stayed  the  fleet  course  of  the  wild  deer,  and  watched 
her  panting,  as  she  lay  beside  the  brook,  looking  for  the  last 
time  at  her  own  image  in  its  clear  waters,  longing  to  suage 
the  liiirst  of  death  with  its  refreshing  coolness. 

His  bones  were  still  tender  and  his  frame  small  when  he 
sped  his  wild  horse  among  the  buflfalo,  sending  his  lance 
into  their  sides,  and  shouting  as  they  tore  up  the  earth, 
roaring  in  their  agony.  Was  he  in  danger  from  the  res- 
tiveness  of  his  horse  ?  he  knew  he  had  only  to  fix  his  black 
eye  upon  the  revengeful  bufialo,  and,  by  the  power  of  the 
soul  speaking  there,  subdue  his  rage.  The  eye  of  man  meet- 
ing the  eye  of  beast,  never  turning  or  yielding  its  glance, 
would  quell  the  passions  of  the  animal,  and  he  would  be 
safe. 

He  could  not  stay  in  the  wigwam,  even  for  an  hour: 
child  of  the  woods  and  prairies,  he  needed  only  their  com- 
panionship. The  streams,  the  rocks,  and  hills  were  the 
friends  whose  society  he  loved.  Among  them  he  could 
"  commune  with  his  own  heart,  and  be  still." 

Threading  the  passes  among  the  hills,  or  stepping  from 
point  to  point  on  the  dangerous  rocks  by  the  shore,  he  ever 


0-KO-PEE. 


75 


took  the  lead  in  the  chase,  and  early  gained  the  reputation 
of  being  the  most  famous  hunter  among  the  Sioux.  How 
he  obtained  the  soubriquet  of  "  The  Nest"*  I  know  not,  but 
he  retained  it  through  all  the  varying  events  of  his  life  on 
earth,  and  it  has  followed  him  to  the  Indian's  unhallowed 
grave,  over  which  hovers  no  spirit  of  hope,  but  the  dark 
and  fallen  angels  of  ignorance  and  superstition. 

As  0-ko-pee  approached  to  manhood,  the  English  claimed 
and  obtained  jurisdiction  over  the  Sioux.  But  the  hunter, 
well  acquainted  with  his  own  laws,  showed  no  inclination 
to  meddle  with  those  of  another  nation,  who  showed  the 
might  of  right. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  feel  with  the  many,  who  were  more 
sensitive  and  less  happy,  the  soul-destroying  anticipation  of 
slavery.  So  long  as  he  had  his  lance  and  bow  and  arrow, 
what  cared  he  for  innovation  ?  and  he  was  too  ignorant  of 
the  economy  of  nations  to  recognise  the  fact  that  when  a 
people  loses  the  right  of  self-government,  it  yields  for  ever 
the  power  of  advancing  in  strength  or  happiness. 

Living  in  his  own  world,  turning  his  eyes  in  adoration  to 
the  sun  he  worshipped,  he  believed  the  Great  Spirit  would 
not  interfere  with  his  concerns  farther  than  to  punish  him 
should  he  neglect  to  celebrate  the  feasts  and  customs  of  his 
nation,  or  turn  from  the  faith  of  his  ancestors.  Never  was 
he  happier  than  when  listening  to  the  flapping  of  the  wings 


*  It  is  customary,  when  an  Indian  advances  towards  manhood,  for  him 
to  lose  the  name  bestowed  upon  him  in  childhood,  obtaining  another  by 
some  peculiarity  of  appearance  or  conduct,  some  daring  action  or  violent 
passion ;  thus,  Sleepy  Eyes,  is  the  name  of  a  chief  among  the  Sioux,  from 
the  drowsy  expression  of  his  countenance. 


76 


THE    IRIS. 


of  the  niischievoiiB  tlumder-lnrtliK,  the  gods  of  his  nation,  ats 
they  roused  thernwelveH  at  the  bright  and  forked  streaks  in 
the  heavy  cU)udH. 

There  were  many,  however,  among  the  Sioux  who  would 
not  willingly  yield  to  the  oppressions  of  the  English,  as  they 
now  would  gladly  resent,  had  they  the  power  to  do  so,  the 
encroachments  of  the  people  of  the  United  States.  Thus, 
a  Dacota,  who  luul  received  a  personal  injury  from  an 
Englishman,  determined  to  take  an  opportunity  of  resent- 
i.-<5  it;  he  did  so,  according  to  Indian  rules  of  strategy. 
He  watched  when  his  victim  was  unawares,  and  took 
aim  successfully,  then  jdunging  into  the  thick  forests,  was 
lost  to  the  search  of  his  foes,  as  was  the  dead  English- 
man, to  the  distress  of  his  family.  The  English  pursued 
a  system  then  which  has  since  been  adopted  by  our  own 
coimtrymen ;  a  system  sometimes  productive  of  great  in- 
justice, yet,  under  the  pecidiar  circumstances,  the  best  one 
that  could  l)e  fixed  on,  1  allude  to  that  of  taking  hostages, 
and  retaining  them  until  the  offender  should  be  given  up. 

O-ko-jwe,  who  had  dreamed  away  his  childhood  among 
the  most  beautiful  s(!enes  of  nature,  found  himself  a  pri- 
soner, torn  from  the  olyects  which  were  dear  to  him  as  life ; 
nay,  they  were  his  life,  for  deprived  of  them  he  sunk  to  the 
level  of  the  jjeasts  of  the  forests. 

Immured  in  a  prison,  far  from  the  refreshing  air  of  his 
native  hilh,  shut  in  hy  the  bars  he  vainly  strove  to  loosen 
or  to  break,  seeing  no  more  the  bear,  the  buffalo,  the  otter, 
or  the  deer,  his  heart  was  broken. 

After  many  years  of  imprisonment,  useless,  for  the  real 
murderer  never  was  found,  he  was  turned  loose,  like  an  ani- 


0-KO-PEE. 


77 


mal  from  whence  the  owner  can  no  longer  derive  either 
amusement  or  profit :  he  returned  mechanically  to  his  for- 
mer occupation.  Once  again  free  in  the  woods,  he  was  soon 
a  laughing-stock  for  the  Sioux.  "  He  has  no  heart  since  he 
was  prisoner  to  the  white  man  !"  they  cried,  as  he  passed  to 
the  prairies,  with  his  vacant  look  and  humbled  demeanour. 
\yhere  was  the  proud  glance  and  the  free  step  ?  Ask  those 
who  with  the  iron  arm  of  power  punished  the  innocent  for 
the  guilty. 

Still,  as  ever,  he  followed  the  chase — thirteen  deer  did  he 
kill  in  one  day,  and  never  tired  of  hunting,  even  as  age  ad- 
vanced seemed  to  increase  his  passion  for  roaming. 

Often  has  he  come  to  us  with  every  variety  of  game, 
never  breaking  his  word,  whatever  might  be  the  state  of  the 
weather.  But  in  coming  or  going,  giving  or  receiving,  his 
demeanour  and  countenance  never  changed ;  his  eyes  were 
wandering  in  vacancy,  save  when  the  fire-water,  given  by 
the  white  man  in  exchange  for  the  soft  furs  he  brought  him, 
would  tinge  his  sallow  cheeks  with  the  flush  of  madness, 
and  lighten  his  eye  with  the  glances  of  a  fiend,  and  change 
from  the  sober  quiet  and  calmness  of  the  unhappy  idiot  to 
the  noisy,  reeling,  hellish  figure,  which  seemed  a  visitant 
from  the  world  of  darkness  rather  than  a  suffering  inhabi- 
tant of  earth. 

0-ko-pee  is  dead.  It  is  not  mine  to  say  whether  or  not, 
in  another  state  of  existence,  he  enjoys  happiness  sufficient 
in  degree  to  make  up  for  the  heavy  trials  of  life :  I  have 
only  to  do  with  him  here ;  and  as  I  have  said  he  lived  a 
sacrifice  to  the  all-conquering  and  indomitable  spirit  of  the 
Saxon  race,  so  did  he  die. 


78 


THE    IRIS. 


Some  years  ago,  a  band  of  Sioux,  distant  from  Fort  Snell- 
ing,  attacked  a  party  of  Winnebagoes,  taking  fourteen  scalps. 
Hearing  that  the  scalps  were  carried  from  village  to  village, 
and  danced  round  day  after  day,  there  was  a  party  sent 
from  the  Fort  to  take  these  scalps  from  the  Indians,  as  there 
was  a  fear  lest  the  hot  blood  of  the  young  warriors  should 
be  roused,  and  serious  difficulties  would  then  occur  between 
the  two  tribes.  So  the  scalps  were  brought  into  the  Fort ; 
the  affair  was  reported  at  Washington.  The  Winnebagoes 
asked  for  indemnity  for  the  injuries  they  had  received,  and 
the  authorities  at  Washington  decided  that  four  thousand 
dollars  should  be  paid  to  the  Winnebagoes  out  of  the  annui- 
ties received  by  the  Sioux  from  our  own  government.  It 
was  in  the  summer :  the  Indian  potato,  hard  and  indigesti- 
ble, was  just  ripening:  the  corn  was  green.  The  Sioux 
were  without  flour  and  other  provisions ;  even  if  game  had 
been  abundant,  they  had  neither  powdei^^  nor  shot.  They 
pined  away  by  fever  and  weakness ;  der.ih  stalked  among 
them  like  a  giant,  laughing  as  he  crushed  to  earth  men  who 
were  like  children  beside  him. 

Was  there  no  help  for  them?  the  mandate  had  gone  forth. 
The  children  fell  to  the  ground  dying  for  want  of  nourish- 
ment; the  strong  man  clung  to  the  trees  for  support,  and  the 
gray-haired  leaned  against  the  insensible  rocks.  Few  there 
were  who  could  bring  down  the  game  with  their  bows  and 
arrows  as  did  their  forefathers,  and  the  white  people  were 
crowding  in  their  country  and  driving  the  game  back  where 
they  were  too  feeble  to  pursue  it. 

Then  came  forward  the  kind  missionaries  to  the  aid  of 
their  unhappy  friends.     How  liberally  they  shared  with 


0-KO-PEE. 


79 


f'; 


them  all  that  they  possessed,  striving  too  to  quiet  their 
minds,  agitated  by  burning  fever.  They  gave  them  medi- 
cine and  food,  supporting  the  dying  mother  and  taking 
charge  of  the  infant  and  the  aged.  They  sought  to  assuage 
the  agonies  of  exhausted  nature,  directing  in  its  flight  the 
restless  spirit  standing  upon  the  borders  of  life  to  that  happy 
place  where  hunger  and  sickness  are  unknown. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  warmest  days  of  summer  when  my 
little  children,  with  their  father,  crossed  the  St.  Peter's,  and 
advanced  towards  the  trading  establishment  at  Mendota. 
On  the  shores  of  the  river  one  wigwam  was  placed,  and,  at- 
tracted by  the  groans  of  anguish  which  proceeded  from  it, 
they  entered.  It  was  0-ko-pee  dying ;  yes,  dying  as  he  had 
lived,  a  sacrifice  to  the  white  man's  rule — dying  as  he  had 
lived,  alone. 

No  friend  supported  his  aching  head,  which  was  burning 
with  fever,  or  chafed  the  cold  limbs  covered  with  ashes. 
Indeed,  his  head  was  pillowed  on  a  bed  of  ashes.  He  recog- 
nised his  visiters,  and  seeing  their  young  faces  solemnized 
by  what  they  had  never  before  witnessed,  the  presence  of 
death,  he  spoke  to  them  by  name,  said  he  was  sick,  and 
asked  them  for  medicine.  It  was  too  late  for  medicine  or 
sympathy;  in  another  hour  0-ko-pee,  the  hunter  of  the 
Sioux,  was  gone  for  ever  from  the  earth. 


CHEQUERED  CLOUD. 


THE  AGED  SIOUX  WOMAN. 


I  WOULD  tell  you  of  a  friend  of  mine : 

She's  neither  rich  nor  fair ; 
The  snows  of  many  winters 

Have  bleached  her  raven  hair. 
The  brightness  of  her  large  black  eye 

Has  been  dimmed  for  many  years; 
And  the  furrows  in  her  cheek  were  made 

By  time  and  shedding  tears. 

She  is  an  Indian  woman, 
And  me  has  often  told 
Traditions  of  her  native  land, 

And  legends  sung  of  old; 
Of  battles  fiercely  fought  and  won, 

Of  the  warrior  as  he  fell, 
While  he  tried  to  shield  from  a  fearful  death 

The  wife  he  loved  so  well. 

Ask  her  whence  her  nation  came : 

With  a  smile  she  will  reply, 
"  The  Dacotas  aye  have  owned  this  land. 

Where  the  eagle  soars  so  high ; 


CHEQUERED    CLOUD. 

Where  Mississippi's  waters  flow, 
Through  bluffs  and  prairies  wide ; 

Where  by  Minesota's  sandy  shore 
The  wild  rice  grows  beside." 

Ask  her  of  her  warrior  sons, 

Who  rose  up  by  her  side — 
Enah !  in  the  fearful  battle. 

And  by  sickness  they  have  died — 
And  of  her  gentle  daughter : 

See  the  tear  steals  lowly  down, 
As  the  memory  of  the  slaughter 

Of  that  frightful  night  comes  on. 

Many  have  been  her  sorrows. 

While  ever  to  her  breast 
Sickness  or  want  or  suffering  came, 

Like  a  familiar  guest. 
Yet,  she  says  there  was  a  time 

When  her  step  was  light  and  free. 
And  her  voice  as  joyous  as  the  bird 

That  sings  in  the  forest  tree. 

I  said  she  was  my  friend  :■ — 

I  am  not  one  of  those. 
Who  from  the  wealthy  or  the  great 

Companionship  would  choose. 
The  soul  that  animates  her  frame 

Is  as  gifted  and  as  free. 
And  will  live  for  ever, — like  the  one 

That  God  has  given  me. 


81 


82 


THE    IRIS. 

She  worships  the  Great  Spirit, 

Yet  often  does  she  tell 
Of  the  fairies  that  inhaV'^ 

Mountain,  river,  rock,  and  dell. 
She  will  say  to  kill  a  foe 

Of  religion  is  a  part; 
Yet  underneath  her  bosom  beats 

A  kind  and  noble  heart. 

She  has  ever  loved  to  listen 

To  the  savage  shout  and  dance  ; 
To  see  the  red  knife  glisten 

O'er  the  dying  Chippeway's  glance. 
To  watch  the  prisoner,  burning, 

Confronting  at  the  stake 
His  enemies,  who  vainly  strive 

His  spirit  proud  to  break. 

Judge  her  kindly,— and  remember. 

She  was  not  taught  in  youth 
To  bend  the  knee  and  lift  the  heart 

To  the  God  of  love  and  truth. 
"Love  ye  your  foes,"  said  He  who  brought 

To  us  the  golden  rule ; 
But  "eye  for  eye,"  was  the  maxim  taught 

In  the  ancient  Jewish  school. 

We  know  it  was  a  beggar 

Who  in  Abraham's  bosom  slept,— 

And,  haply,  her  ancestors 
By  Babylon's  waters  wept. 


CHEQUERED    CLOUD.  88 

While  poor,  like  Lazarus,  it  may  be, 

From  Israel's  stock  has  come 
The  red  man,  tracing  out  on  earth 

His  God-forgotten  doom. 

Well  I  knew,  when  last  we  parted, 

That,  if  ever  we  met  more, 
'Twould  be  when  life's  sweet  sympathies 

And  painful  cares  are  o'er. 
She  said,  while  down  her  aged  face 

The  tears  coursed  rapidly, 
"  Many  a  white  woman  have  I  known, 

But  you  were  kind  to  me." 

Not  half  as  dear  to  the  miser 

Is  the  yellow  gold  he  saves, — 
Or  the  pearl,  to  the  venturous  diver, 

Which  he  seeks  beneath  the  waves, 
Or  the  summer  breeze,  to  the  drooping  flower, 

Fresh  from  the  balmy  South, 
As  those  grateful  words  which  slowly  came 

From  the  Indian  woman's  mouth. 

She  has  struggled  with  the  ills  of  life; 

For  her  no  parent's  prayers 
Have  risen  to  the  throne  of  God, 

To  sanctify  life's  cares. 
But  God  will  judge  her  kindly  : 

He  sees  the  sparrow  fall ; 
And,  through  his  Son's  atoning  blood, 

May  he  mercy  show  to  all ! 


FIRE-FACE. 


BT    MRS.     Ma;:v    EASTMAN. 


Fire-face  was  willing  to  die,  he  said,  but  not  until  he 
had  killed  another  white  man.  He  was  sincere  in  acknow- 
ledging hatred  towards  the  people  of  the  United  States. 
There  was  no  doubt  but  he  had  stained  his  hands  with  the 
blood  of  one  white  man ;  but  this  did  not  satisfy  him :  let 
him  take  the  life  of  another,  and  he  was  willing  to  be  made 
prisoner,  and  to  meet  what  punishment  might  be  designed 
for  him.  The  mantle  of  Cain  had  indeed  fallen  upon  him ; 
his  heart  was  turned  even  from  his  own  people,  and  angry 
threatenings  were  ever  upon  his  lips,  against  those  with 
whom  he  had  grown  up  side  by  side.  Wabashaw,  chief  of 
one  of  the  bands  of  Sioux  on  the  Mississippi,  left  his  home, 
where  the  prairies  stretch  out  to  the  distance,  without  even 
a  hill  to  relieve  the  level  sameness,  or  trees  to  shelter  them 
from  the  short  but  intense  heat  of  the  summer,  to  encamj), 
by  permission,  on  the  St.  Peter's  River,  opposite  Fort  Snel- 
ling.  Fire-face,  one  of  the  band,  was  with  them,  accom- 
panied by  his  two  wives. 

He  was  feared  by  all  of  the  band ;  even  the  brave  chief 
Wabashaw,  whose  life  he  had  threatened,  turned  from  the 
fierce  gaze  of  the  man,  over  whom  had  been  cast  a  spell 
from  the  spirits  of  evil,  for  he  frowned  alike  upon  friend 
and  foe.     Only  his  wives  seemed  easy  when  he  was  near, 


FIRE-FACE. 


85 


and  they  not  only  feared  but  loved  the  strange  being,  who^ie 
hand  was  against  every  man's. 

He  passed  the  most  of  his  time  seated  near  his  lodge, 
with  his  medicine-bag  hanging  near ;  his  implements  of  war 
and  hunting  glistening  in  the  light,  and  his  loaded  gun  ever 
by  his  side. 

Many  efforts  had  been  made  to  apprehend  this  desperate 
man,  yet  he  had  always  eluded  the  pursuit  of  the  soldiers ; 
and  now,  although  aware  of  the  da  :iger  he  was  in,  when 
living  so  near  the  garrison,  he  appeared  to  be  perfectly 
unconcerned,  saying,  he  knew  the  soldiers  would  make 
every  effort  to  arrest  him;  but  that  he  would  never  be 
taken  until  another  of  the  pale  faces  had  fallen  by  his  arm. 
Wabashaw,  the  chief,  frequently  visited  the  Fort,  always 
accompanied  by  his  late  friend  Many  Lightnings,  and  on 
every  occasion  he  pressed  the  necessity  of  taking  Fire-face 
prisoner.  "  He  was  a  bad  Indian,"  said  Wabashaw,  "  who 
loved  to  see  blood ;  and,  if  allowed  to  go  at  liberty,  some 
one  would  be  murdered  by  him." 

The  chief  said  that  he  did  not  sleep  at  night  in  his 
own  lodge,  but  v.  ent  for  safety  to  the  near  village  of  Men- 
doto,  where  he  remained  until  the  sun  was  high  in  the 
heavens  ilie  next  day.  In  consequence  of  these  representa- 
tions, a  party  of  soldiers  was  sent  to  arrest  him,  and  the 
Indians  were  to  assist  in  the  capture. 

Fire-face  was  on  the  lookout :  he  appeared  to  show  himself 
in  the  way  of  danger  for  the  pleasure  of  overcoming  it.  He 
would  remain  at  ease  until  the  party  was  near  him ;  and  then, 
like  an  arrow  from  the  bow,  he  would  fly  through  the  village, 
no  man  daring  to  stay  him :  and  you  might  as  well  have 


86 


THE    IRIS. 


attempted  to  catch  the  sunbeam  on  the  waters  as  the  hunted 
man.  Pursuit  was  unavailing,  and  the  soldier?  each  time 
returned  disappointed  to  the  Fort. 

He  would  soon  come  back  to  the  encarapment.  What  a 
courage  was  his,  thus  purposely  throwing  himself  in  the 
way  of  danger,  knowing  too  that  he  had  not  one  friend  to 
whom  he  could  turn.  His  frightened,  helpless  family  alone 
cared  for  him.  It  was  evidently  a  pleasure  to  him  to  be  in 
a  situation  of  peril,  to  show  his  adroitness  in  extricating 
himself. 

About  ten  o'clock  one  night  he  sat  in  his  lodge,  gloomily 
meditating  on  his  position.  Could  he  eventually  escape  the 
pursuit  of  his  enemies  ?  Was  he  not  a  doomed  man,  when 
the  bands  of  friendship  were  severed  between  him  and  those 
with  whom  he  had  fought,  and  whose  lives  had  been  tracing 
an  even  course  with  his  ? 

The  children's  heavy  breathing  was  the  only  sound  that 
could  be  heard.  His  Avives  sat  mute  in  the  lodge.  He  had 
been  hunted  to  the  death,  and  now  sleep  was  overcoming 
him,  and  his  watchfulness  was  yielding  to  his  fatigue ;  while 
he  thought  to  lay  his  tomahawlc  beside  him,  and  seek  re- 
pose, the  door  of  his  lodge  was  turned  aside,  and  the  long- 
knives  (as  the  soldiers  were  called)  were  upon  him. 

Their  exulting  looks  were  met  by  his  calmest  demeanour : 
he  offered  no  resistance ;  but  when  the  soldiers  placed  their 
hands  upon  his  wrists  to  secure  the  captive,  he  glided  from 
their  grasp  as  easily  as  a  serpent  might  pass  from  the  touch 
of  a  child ;  he  bounded  from  their  HJght,  and  again  they 
vainly  sought  the  strange  man  :  the  protecting  shades  of 
night  were  about  him,  and  he  knew  full  well  the  hiding- 


:, 


FIRE-FACE. 


87 


places  of  the  neighbourhood.  When  out  of  their  reach  he 
laughed  as  he  looked  at  his  oiled  hands  and  arms,  for  tliere 
was  the  secret  of  his  escape. 

Morning  found  him  again  in  his  lodge,  oalm,  fearless  as 
ever.  The  Sioux  thought  he  must  wear  a  charmed  life, 
and  they  kept  from  the  reach  of  his  arm :  and  the  children, 
even  his  own,  played  where  they  could  not  see  his  dark  face 
as  he  watched  their  amusements. 

There  is  a  spell,  however,  that  few  Indians  can  resist;  it 
is  to  them  an  unfailing  quietus  for  care :  they  can  fancy 
they  are  free  when  hre-water  quickens  the  coursing  of  their 
veins.  They  curse  the  white  man  from  the  heart,  and  hope 
and  look  forward  to  the  time  when  the  red  man  shall  have 
his  own  again.  They  then  forget  that  the  outstretched 
arms  of  desolation  are  ready  to  clasp  them,  and  that  de- 
struction, like  the  night-bird,  is  hovering  over  their  heads 
with  its  hoarse  cry  sounding  to  their  hearts. 

Fire-face  could  not  refuse  the  charm.  The  Indians  pressed 
it  upon  him,  and  then  informed  the  soldiers  that  they  were 
going  out  with  the  intention  of  hunting,  as  Fire-face  thought, 
that  on  this  occasion  he  might  be  followed  and  taken. 

The  party  went  on  their  route,  stopping  occasionally  to 
drink  and  to  smoke.  Fire-face,  overcome  by  the  liquor  he 
had  drank,  could  hardly  keep  up  with  them.  His  gun 
swung  carelessly  from  his  shoulder,  and  his  usual  gravity 
was  changed  for  a  loud  and  boisterous  cheerfulness. 

"  The  white  people  fear  me,"  he  said,  laughing ;  "  well 
they  may,  for  my  arm  is  strong,  and  before  I  die  I  will  kill 
another  of  them.  I  have  already  murdered  a  white  man, 
and  should  be  satisfied  if  one  of  their  women  died  by  my 


88 


THE    IRIS. 


tomahawk.  I  should  like  to  take  her  scalp  with  the  long 
light  hair  hanging  from  it. 

The  Indians  still  encouraged  him  to  drink,  and  as  the 
morning  advanced  he  became  the  more  unfitted  to  pursue 
his  way.  From  a  state  of  passion  and  excitement  he  had 
passed  into  one  of  stupor :  at  length  he  rested  himself  against 
a  tree,  and  alternately  muttered  and  dozed. 

In  the  mean  time  soldiers  were  following  him  up.  Wa- 
bashaw  gave  information  of  the  path  Fire-face  had  taken, 
and  they  were  soon  upon  him. 

He  was  a  prisoner  at  last,  and  that  consciousness  sobered 
him.  His  hands  were  bound.  One  of  the  Sioux,  indignant 
at  this  proceeding,  attempted  to  cut  the  straps,  but  was 
pushed  off.  After  a  slight  delay,  the  soldiers  returned  with 
him  to  the  garrison. 

He  continually  reproached  himself  with  his  own  unwatch- 
fulness,  telling  the  soldiers  that  he  had  always  intended 
killing  one  of  them  ere  he  should  be  in  their  power.  He 
mournfully  said  it  was  too  late  now  to  accomplish  his  pur- 
pose. 

At  about  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  was  brought  into 
the  Fort.  The  news  of  his  capture  had  reached  the  en- 
campment of  Wabashaw  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river, 
and  as  he  approached  the  guard  at  the  gate  of  the  Fort,  a 
number  of  Sioux  were  seen  watching  him.  His  two  wives 
stood  there,  and  as  their  husband's  figure  passed,  guarded 
and  bound,  they  literally  lifted  up  their  voices  and  wept. 

Fire-face,  in  the  mean  time,  was  turned  over  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  guard,  and  he  was  soon  seated  at  the  grated 
window  of  >is  cell.     I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  the  man. 


FIRE-FACE. 


89 


and  thought  that  one  who  combined  so  many  terrible  traits 
of  character  must  show  it  in  his  countenance :  in  order  to 
see  this  singular  being,  I  determined  to  visit  him  in  his  cell. 
We  passed  the  guard-room  and  entered  his  dark  and  dreary- 
looking  place  of  coniinement.  His  back  wag  to  us,  as  he 
was  looking  through  the  bars  of  his  window  towards  his 
home.  Hearing  some  one  approach,  he  turned  to  us  with  an 
expression  of  face  entirely  mild ;  there  was  neither  passion 
nor  murder  portrayed  in  his  features,  not  even  a  restlessness 
in  his  manner — only  a  quiet  dignity,  a  calm  unconcern. 

He  begged  of  the  commanding  officer  to  be  shot  at  once, 
deprecating  the  thought  of  imprisonment— only  let  him  die 
or  be  free.  It  was  in  vain  to  remind  him  of  his  offences : 
the  laws  of  the  white  man  were  not  for  him.  He  then  said 
that  he  wished  to  see  his  wives.  The  request  was  granted : 
they  were  sent  for,  and  after  a  little  while  they,  trembling 
with  fear,  passed  the  terrible-looking  guard  and  entered  their 
husband's  cell,  with  their  faces  covered  with  their  blankets. 

The  next  day  a  council  was  held  at  the  council-house, 
and  I  could  not  resist  the  wish  I  had  to  be  present.  I  longed 
to  see  the  aborigines  of  my  country  presiding  as  it  were  in 
their  own  halls  of  legislature.  There  was  always  a  charm 
and  freshness  in  listening  to  their  unstudied  eloquence. 

When  I  reached  the  council-house  the  speaking  was  nearly 
over,  but  the  scene  repaid  me  for  the  trouble  I  had  taken  to 
witness  it. 

The  warriors  were  seated  in  rows  round  the  room  on  the 
floor,  with  the  exception  of  Wabashaw,  Many  Lightnings, 
and  a  few  of  the  principal  men, — these  occupied  a  bench. 

Their  dresses  were  very  rich ;  their  fans  were  of  large 


90 


THE    IRIS. 


feathers,  stained  in  many  colours.  "  The  Owl"  was  looking 
grave,  for  he  hod  been  reproved  for  interfering  with  the 
soldiers,  by  attempting  to  cut  the  prisoner's  straps.  One 
old  man  was  in  mourning,  and  he  looked  particularly  en 
dkhahille,  his  clothing  (and  there  was  little  of  it)  was 
dirty  in  the  extreme.  His  face  he  had  painted  perfectly 
black;  his  hair  he  had  purposely  disarranged,  to  the 
greatest  degree.  Thus  he  presented  a  r.triking  contrast 
to  the  elaborately  adorned  warriors  around  him. 

Many  Lightnings  was  dressed  with  scrupulous  care.  He 
had  been  presented  with  an  old  uniform-coat,  which  he 
wore  with  the  utmost  complacency.  We  noticed  the  war- 
riors were  almost  all  young :  we  asked  where  were  all  their 
old  men.  Wabashaw  said,  they  were  all  carried  off  by  the 
small-pox,  which  had  nearly  destroyed  their  band  some 
years  before.  Several  of  them,  besides  the  chief,  were 
deeply  marked  from  this  disease. 

When  we  left  Fort  Snelling,  Fire-face  was  still  in  con- 
finement, but  was  soon  to  go  to  Dubuque  for  trial.  I 
learned  some  months  after,  that  he  had  escaped :  I  thought 
then,  his  long-cherished  wish  might  still  be  gratified. 


DEATH-SONG 

OP  AN  INDIAN   PRISONER,  FOR  A  LONG  TIME  CONFINED  AT 

FORT   SNELLING. 

BY     MBS.      MAEY     EASTMAN. 


Hep  1,  in  these  hated  walls 

A  prisoner  I ; 
Vainly  my  young  wife  calls, 

As  night-winds  sigh. 
Brightly  the  white  stars  shine : 

Upwards  I  gaze, 
Seeking  this  soul  of  mine 

From  earth  to  raise. 

Strong  Wind,  my  comrade  brave. 

Looks  sternly  by, 
Watching  the  death-film  dim 

His  brother's  eye. 
Chained  are  these  useless  hands ; 

Cold  is  my  heart ; 
Soon  to  the  spirits'  land 

Must  I  depart. 

Pacing  my  prison  dark, 
Arms  do  I  s;  e, — 


92 


THE    IBIS. 

While  measured  the  sentry's  step, 

Glance  gleamingly. 
Once,  like  the  wild  deer, 

Or  eagle,  as  free, — 
Now,  closely  guarded  here, 

Prisoners  we ! 


When  has  the  red  man  felt 

Woman's  weak  fears  ? 
But  from  these  wearied  eyes 

Fall  warriors'  tears. 
Father  of  Waters,  I 

Ne'er  shall  see  more,— 
List  to  its  waves  pass  by, 

Beating  the  shore. 

Sleeps  my  brave  comrade  now?- 

Dreams  he  of  home? 
See,  o'er  his  haughty  brow 

Dark  shadows  come. 
Like  me,  he  fain  would  be 

Where,  from  the  bow. 
Piercing  the  wild  deer's  side. 

Swift  arrows  go. 

When  from  the  waters  bright 

Fades  the  red  sun. 
Following  the  evening  light. 

Darkness  comes  on. 


DEATH-SONG. 


93 


So  has  my  spirit  drooped, 

Since  from  my  home 
Traced  I  my  weary  steps, 

Ne'er  to  return. 

Hark !  in  the  evening  air 

Low  voices  come, — 
Bring  they  to  this  sad  heart 

Breathings  of  home. 
Now  do  the  whispers  rise, 

Mighty  the  sound, 
Like  the  thunder-bird,*  from  the  skies 

Hurled  to  the  ground. 

"  Come  to  our  hunting-lands ! 

Proudly  we  roam 
Here,  where  the  white  man 

Never  may  come. 
From  our  forests  on  earth 

Oft  driven  back, 
We  are  free  now,  and  follow 

The  buffalo's  track. 

"  Here  is  the  bright  glance, 
From  maiden's  dark  eye ; 


*  This  is  an  allusion  to  the  battles  of  the  gods  of  the  Dacotas.  The 
Thunder  (believed  to  be  a  bird)  is  sometimes  conquered  and  cast  to  the 
earth  by  the  god  of  the  woods  or  the  god  of  the  waters. 


94 


THE    IRIS. 


While  the  song  of  the  feast  and  dance 

Rings  through  the  sky. 
Here  do  we  wait  thy  step, 

While  soon,  for  thee, 
Bursted  the  prison  bars, 

The  warrior  free !" 


THE  FALSE  ALARM. 


BT  MB8.    HABT  EASTMAN. 


"Yes,"  said  Weharka,  who  had  outlived  children  and 
grandchildren,  whose  face  and  neck  were  covered  with 
wrinkles,  but  who  still  could  walk  with  the  youngest  and 
strongest,  "  the  old  woman  must  pick  up  what  she  can  get 
to  eat.  I  hate  the  white  people.  Have  I  forgotten  the 
death  of  my  son  ?  Do  I  not  see  him  now  as  he  fell  dead 
by  the  gate  of  the  Fort  ?  What  if  the  Dacotas  had  killed 
some  Chippeways !  The  Dacotas  have  a  right  to  kill  their 
enemies.  Enah !  I  hate  the  Chippeways  too.  If  I  were  a 
warrior,  I  would  ever  be  tracking  them  and  shooting  them 
down,  and  I  would  laugh  when  I  saw  their  blood  flow." 

"  The  white  people  caused  the  death  of  your  son,"  said 
Harpen. 

"I  hate  them  both,"  replied  Weharka.  "My  son  and 
two  others  killed  some  Chippeways,  and  they  were  taken, 
prisoners,  to  the  Fort,  because  the  long-knives  had  said  we 
must  not  kill  our  enemies.  Then  the  Chippeways  wanted 
the  Dacotas  who  murdered  their  friends,  that  their  women 
might  cut  them  in  pieces.  So  the  long-knives  told  the 
Dacotas  they  might  start  from  the  gate  of  the  Fort,  and 
run  for  their  lives;  but  they  told  the  Chippeways  to  be 
there  too,  and  they  might  fire  at  them  and  kill  them  if 


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96 


THE    IRIS. 


they  could.  The  Chippeways  fired,  and  the  three  Dacotas 
fell.  The  Chippeways  shouted  and  were  glad,  and  the 
Dacota  women  wept.  I  lay  on  the  ground  many  days, 
with  my  limbs  bleeding.  See  the  scars  on  my  arms !  With 
this  very  knife  did  I  make  these  wounds.  I,  a  widow,  and 
childless,  who  has  there  been  to  give  me  food  since? 

"When  Beloved  Hail  was  killed,"  continued  the  old 
woman,  "  the  white  men  would  not  let  our  warriors  go  to 
war  against  the  Chippeways.  Red-boy,  too,  was  wounded 
by  the  Chippeways,  and  even  he  could  not  go  out  to  fight 
them.  Our  warriors  are  like  children  before  the  white 
men." 

"  Red-boy  was  badly  wounded,"  said  Harpen. 

"  Yes,  he  was  badly  wounded :  I  saw  him  at  the  time.  If 
I  were  Red-boy,  I  would  only  live  to  revenge  myself  on 
those  who  had  tried  to  take  my  life." 

Whilo  the  woman  talked,  little  Wanska  sat  by  them, 
playing  with  her  wooden  doll.  "  Grandmother,"  said  she, 
"may  I  take  your  canoe  and  go  over  to  the  village?  You 
can  come  home  with  the  others.  I  want  to  talk  to  my 
mother  about  Red-boy." 

"Go,  go,"  said  Weharka,  "our  brave  men  may  no 
longer  do  brave  deeds,  and  by  the  time  that  you  are  a 
woman,  there  will  be  no  more  warriors.  It  has  been  five 
winters  since  Beloved  Hail  was  killed  and  Red-boy  wounded, 
and  no  one  has  avenged  them  yet." 

The  child  entered  th^  canoe  and  paddled  towards  the 
village,  thinking  all  the  while  of  what  she  had  heard. 
"Grandmother  says,  by  the  time  I  am  a  woman,  there  will 
be  no  more  warriors :  what  will  I  do  then  for  a  husband  ?" 


THE    FALSE    ALARM. 


97 


and  thus  divided  between  the  disgrace  of  not  being  mar- 
ried, and  the  remembrance  of  Bed-boy's  wound,  which  she 
thought  had  occurred  recently ,  she  entered  the  village  in  a 
state  of  trepidation,  which  was  yet  exceeded  by  the  con- 
dition in  which  her  mother  was  thrown,  on  hearing  the 
announcement  that  Bed-boy  was  badly  wounded  by  the 
Ghippeways ;  that  Weharka  had  seen  the  wound ;  that  all 
the  old  women  were  very  angry  with  the  Ghippeways  and 
white  people;  then,  bursting  into  tears,  the  girl  of  ten 
years  added :  "  Mother,  the  Ghippeways  and  white  men  are 
going  to  kill  all  the  Dacota  warriors,  so  that,  when  I  am  a 
woman,  I  can  never  have  a  husband !" 

Up  rose  the  eyes  and  hands  of  the  mother,  and  down 
went  the  moccasins  she  was  making  to  the  ground;  and 
up  and  down  she  made  her  way  through  the  village,  giving 
the  alarm,  that  Bed-boy  was  killed  by  the  Ghippeways ! 

Shall  I  tell  of  the  scene  that  followed  ?  Oh !  for  a  pen 
of  magic,  to  describe  how  Bed-boy*s  relations  cried,  and  how 
everybody's  relations  cried  with  them ;  how  the  children 
ran  to  their  mothers,  sheltering  themselves  under  their 
oJcendokendaa.*  How  the  dogs  yelped  and  howled,  and 
sprung  on  the  children's  backs,  ready  to  go  wherever 
prudence  might  dictate.  How  the  old  men  started  from 
sleeping  in  the  lazy  summer's  sun,  and  held  their  toma- 
hawks as  firmly  as  if  time  were  made  to  be  laughed  at, 
and  the  young  men  throwing  away  the  pebbles  with  which 


""An  Okondokenda  is  a  part  of  an  Indian  woman's  dress,  somewhat 
resembling  tlie  sack  worn  by  ladies  at  the  present  time,  more  open,  dis- 
playing the  throat  and  chest.  It  is  generally  made  of  bright-coloured 
calico. 


'■""•f^WPPpPBPW^ 


^IDPlppfniiipiiju  1,1     III  1.11  III 


98 


THE    IRIS. 


they  were  playing  a  game  of  chance,  walked  swiftly  on, 
bent  on  avenging  Eed-boy. 

How  the  wind  all  at  once  began  to  rise,  and  the  very  fish 
leaped  out  of  the  water,  as  if  they  would  like  to  fight  too ; 
while  already,  Indian  runners  were  far  on  their  way  to  tell 
the  news  at  Man-in-the-cloud's  and  Good-road's  villages,  and 
to  give  the  word  to  those  whom  they  might  meet,  who  would 
take  up  the  cry,  and  rush  forward  with  revenge  on  their 
lips,  and  murder  in  their  hearts. 

On  they  went,  until  they  reached  the  house  of  the  Inter- 
preter, near  Fort  Snelling,  and  then  he  went  with  them,  to 
report  to  the  officers  at  the  Fort  of  the  outrage ;  that  Red- 
boy  was  killed,  and  that  the  Dacota  warriors  wished  to  go 
and  avenge  the  death  of  their  friend. 

This  was,  of  course,  considered  an  infringement  of  the 
treaty  of  peace  then  existing  between  the  two  tribes;  and 
the  Chippeways  had  showed  their  daring  by  committing  a 
murder  so  near  the  walls  of  the  Fort.  It  was  immediately 
determined  to  send  a  detachment  of  soldiers  to  arrest  the 
offenders. 

In  ten  minutes  a  number  of  men  were  on  the  parade- 
ground,  ready  to  march,  looking  as  fiercely  at  the  officers' 
quarters  as  if  they  were  about  to  enter  into  mortal  combat 
with  the  doors  and  windows ;  obeying  the  word  of  command 
as  quickly  as  it  was  reiterated,  while  the  ringing  noise  of 
their  ramrods  sounded  through  the  garrison. 

The  Dacotas  were  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  promise 
made  them,  that  the  Chippeways  should  be  punished  in  a 
manner  satisfactory  to  themselves,  for  the  death  of  Red-boy. 

We  women  felt  quite  solemn  in  the  Fort.    The  Chip- 


THE    FALSE    ALARM. 


99 


peways  might  resist:  in  fact,  there  was  no  saying  what 
they  might,  or  what  they  might  not  do.  The  command  in 
garrison  was  very  small :  we  felt  as  if  we  had  been 
"  through  seven  wars,  and  this  was  the  worst  of  all." 

Retreat,  the  assembling  of  the  command  at  sundown, 
came — the  evening  gun  was  fired,  and  the  flag  was  lowered 
— and  nothing  was  heard  of  the  war-party,  white  or  Indian. 
Tattoo  had  come,  the  soldier's  bed-time,  and  our  anxieties 
were  not  at  rest.  Towards  twelve  o'clock  the  men  returned 
with  their  officer,  without  having  had  even  a  show  of  fight. 
To  their  intense  mortification  and  disappointment.  Red-boy 
had  been  seen,  and  talked  with,  large  as  life.  He  had  eaten 
a  saddle  of  venison  that  day,  without  any  assistance,  and 
was,  accordingly,  in  a  good  state  of  preservation,  having  re- 
ceived no  wound  since  the  one  of  five  years'  standing,  the 
scar  of  which  he  showed. 

Now,  we  know  that  among  white  people,  as  well  as  In- 
dians, women  have  the  credit  of  raising  all  the  false  reports, 
and  circulating  all  the  scandal  that  is  going  the  rounds. 
Most  unjust  charge !  and  all  men,  red  skins  and  pale  faces, 
are  defied  to  prove  it.  Among  the  Indians  women  have  no 
chance  whatever.  Is  an  Indian  charged  with  stealing  pork 
from  the  traders  ?  It  was  not  the  warrior  who  did  it,  but  his 
wife.  Has  a  party  of  Indians  been  admitted  into  the  Fort, 
and  some  loaves  of  bread  and  pieces  of  meat  been  abstract- 
ed ?  Somehow  or  other  the  women  are  sure  to  be  in  fault. 
Has  the  garrison  been  alarmed,  and  a  party  of  soldiers  sent 
out  uselessly  ?    As  usual,  the  women  made  the  trouble. 

Yet,  with  a  sigh  from  my  heart,  I  must  confess  that  ap- 
pearances are  against  the  sex. 

7 


p^Minwi 


100 


THE    IRIS. 


There  were  many  threats  of  vengeance  made  against  We- 
harka  in  the  present  instance,  for  the  trouble  which  her 
longings  for  vengeance  had  occasioned;  but  she  was  not 
afraid :  she  had  taken  care  of  herself  for  nearly  a  hundred 
years,  and  would  be  apt  to  do  so  during  the  short  remnant 
of  her  life. 

Indian  women  will  talk  of  their  wrongs  as  long  as  they 
feel  them,  and  that  will  be  until  the  heart  has  ceased  to 
beat,  and  the  tongue  is  silent  for  ever. 

Weharka  lives  on  the  memory  of  her  sorrows.  She  holds 
them  to  her  heart,  as  does  the  mother  her  child  of  a  day 
old.  They  are  dear  to  her  as  would  be  the  hope  of  ven- 
geance. 

I  say  she  lives,  but  I  know  not.  Seasons  have  gone  since 
I  bade  adieu  to  her  home,  and  it  may  be,  she  is  all  uncon- 
scious that  winter  is  gone,  and  that  summer's  breath  is 
waving  the  green  boughs  of  the  forest  trees  as  they  lift  up 
their  branches  to  the  heavens. 

It  must  be  soon,  if  not  now,  that  her  form,  covered  with 
garments  of  poverty  and  misery,  and  perhaps  shielded  from 
the  gaze  of  passers-by  by  the  tattered  blanket  of  some  friend 
poor  as  she,  reposes  quietly  near  the  river  bank. 

Would  you  not  like  to  have  heard  her  talk  of  her  amuse- 
ments as  a  child,  and  her  happiness  when  a  maiden — of  the 
scenes  of  pleasure  she  remembers,  and  of  terror  from  which 
she  has  tied — of  the  pains,  the  hunger,  the  watcliings  she  has 
endured^-of  the  storms  and  sunshine  of  a  life  passed  away  ? 


lippppi 


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mm/^^mn^mmmm^mm 


■II      M    IJIHmiUMI 


INDIAN  COURTSHIP. 


BT  MR8.    HART  EASTMAN. 


Show  nie  a  brighter  scene 
On  our  beautiful  earth,  or  where  fairies  dream ! 

HH  :!«  H:  Id  H« 

Tell  me  where,  rocked  by  the  billows  high. 

The  sea-bird  pierces  the  gorgeous  sky, 

Where  the  moonbeams  rest  on  the  ocean  wave — 

Where  dies  the  sun  o'er  the  crystal  cave. 

Where  the  bell  sounds  sweet  o'er  the  desert  sand, 

Like  matins  that  ring  in  a  far-off  land. 

Where  the  mountain  heaves  with  its  angry  voice. 

And  the  lava  speeds  with  its  fiercest  course; 

Where  the  glaciers  glance  by  the  sunbeam's  ray, 

And  the  avalanche  bursts  with  resistless  sway. 

Yet  show  me  a  brighter,  a  fairer  scene 

On  our  beautiful  earth,  or  where  spirits  dream, 

Than  here !  where  the  leaves  of  the  large  trees  lave. 

As  their  boughs  are  bent  to  the  river's  wave ; 

Than  here !  where  night  and  the  white  stars  come, 

Their  watch  to  keep  o'er  the  Indian's  home. 


Now  o'er  the  waters  bright 
Glides  his  canoe, 


102 


THE    IRIS. 

Throbbing  his  warrior  heart. 

Maiden!  for  you. 
Roused  from  your  dreamy  sleep, 

Bend  low  and  list ; 
Not  once  has  his  well-known  tread 

Your  loving  heart  missed. 

Not  far  from  the  wigwam  door 

Rests  he  awhile — 
But  from  far  has  he  journeyed 

To  meet  your  bright  smile. 

He  speaks  to  your  heart 

By  the  flute's  slightest  sound, 
And  its  low  notes  are  echoed 

By  that  heart's  wildest  bound. 

He  knows  if  you  love  him 

You'll  surely  come  forth, 
And  modestly  plight  him 

A  maiden's  pure  tro^  '. 
Then  come !  he  will  talk 

Of  his  sweet  forest  home, 
Which  you  will  make  brighter ; 

Come !   maiden,  come ! 

You  move  not.    Ah !  woman. 

He  will  not  despair : 
He  has  medicine  tied 

In  the  braids  of  his  hair. 
Love-medicine,  bound 

In  the  white  deer's  soft  breast. 


INDIAN    COURTSHIP. 

'Twill  charm  you  at  last 
On  his  bosom  to  rest. 

Should  he  wait  for  your  coming 

This  fair  night  in  vain, 
No  faint  heart  has  he — 

He  will  charm  you  again. 
A  spell  he  will  cast 

On  your  slight  graceful  form ; 
Then,  wrapped  in  your  blanket-robe, 

Maiden,  you'll  come. 

To  your  parents  he'll  pres"  .ts  give: 

Bright  things  and  new — 
Ah !  young  wives  are  bought  and  sold 

Among  Indians  too. 
Then,  from  the  mother's  side 

You  will  go  forth, 
The  star  of  a  warrior's  home. 

The  light  of  his  hearth. 


103 


Come !  ere  the  morning  star 

Lures  him  away ; 
He  must  meet  with  the  wise  men 

When  breaks  the  blue  day. 
Your  soft  voice  must  greet  him 

Ere  homeward  he  turn. 
Then  close  to  his  throbbing  heart 

Come,  maiden,  come ! 


THE  SACRIFICE. 


BY     MRS.      MAKY     EASTMAN. 


Far  away  in  one  of  the  fair  valleys  of  the  WeHt,  svUcrv 
dark  forests  frown  alike  in  summer,  when  the  richly  ihul 
boughs  wave  to  the  passing  breeze,  and  in  winter,  when 
the  bare  maple  and  thick  evergreens  are  eoven'd  witli 
snow, — far  away,  just  on  the  borders  of  the  valley,  vhni* 
by  the  huge  rocks  which  rear  their  heads  above  the  bliillH 
that  hang  over  the  water, — an  Indian  village,  with  itn 
many-sized  lodges  rising  here  and  there,  reponeil,  an  it  were, 
without  fear  from  storm,  or  the  sun's  heat,  or  the  aggw^H- 
sions  of  enemies.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the  mighty  thunder 
rolled  angrily  towards  it,  and  the  streaked  lightning  eallcd 
over  and  over  again,  to  the  many  hills  around,  to  foiine  up 
the  tardy  storm-spirits;  but  they  loved  not  to  linger  here. 
Their  voices  could  be  heard  in  angry  murmurn,  then  they 
would  pass  on  in  the  river's  course,  with  many  a  wild  Hhoiit, 
to  seek  some  spot  less  lovely  on  which  to  spend  their  wrath. 

A  very  few  miles  below  the  village,  an  Indian  might  Ik* 
seen,  slowly  paddling  his  canoe  over  the  phicicl  watern. 
The  dark  lines  of  his  face  were  fixed  in  dee[)  thought. 
His  countenance  was  pale,  though  the  hue  of  bin  mvA;  wnw 
there ;  his  nostrils  large,  and  quivering  with  the  rt>niainH  of 
passion;  his  eyes  bright  and  lustrous,  as  if  with  fever;  but 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


105 


around  his  mouth  might  be  traced  an  expression  which 
seemed  to  indicate  that  grief  as  well  as  passion  was  strug- 
gling with  him.  As  he  slowly  touched  with  his  paddle 
the  passive  waters,  he  looked  around  him  with  a  bewil- 
dered air. 

Sudderdy,  he  started,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  something  that 
lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe ;  he  raised  it :  'twas  the 
arrow  of  his  child.  How  came  it  there  ?  and  why  should 
the  father,  forgetting  all,  as  he  dropped  unconsciously  the 
paddle  into  the  waters,  cover  his  face  with  both  his  hands, 
and  while  the  tears  forced  their  way  through  his  fingers, 
tremble  with  remembrances  too  strong  even  for  him,  the 
Iron  Heart,  to  bear  ? 

All  was  quiet  and  peace.  Not  a  voice  was  heard ;  even 
nature's  was  still.  No  human  eye  looked  upon  the  warrior 
as  he  wept.  Silence  and  solitude  surrounded  him.  The 
vast  prairie  that  stretched  abroad  might  have  recalled  to  his 
mind  the  unending  future,  which  he  was  to  spend  in  the 
society  of  the  honoured  dead.  The  soft  vapoury  clouds  of 
evening  that  hung  over  him,  might  have  told  him,  as  they 
have  told  many,  that  it  is  not  far  from  the  wretched  to  the 
land  of  spirits.  The  waters,  on  which  his  canoe  rested  al- 
most motionless,  might  have  called  to  his  remembrance, 
that  life  was  a  sea,  sometimes  troubled  and  sometimes  calm, 
over  which  the  mortal  must  pass  to  reach  immortality. 

But  no  such  tranquillizing  thoughts  calmed  the  tempest 
which  was  raging  in  his  bosom;  his  bare  chest  heaved 
with  emotion ;  but  at  length  he  raised  his  head,  and  taking 
another  paddle  from  the  bottom  of  his  canoe  in  his  right 
hand,  witLi  the  other  he  threw  the  small  arrow  that  had 


immimm 


mmm* 


106 


THE    IRIS. 


occasioned  him  so  many  painful  thoughts,  and  watching 
till  the  waters  closed  over  it,  he  made  his  way  towards  the 
bend  in  the  river,  where  lowlands  and  prairies  were  no 
more  to  be  sc^n,  and  an  hour's  time  brought  him  in  sight 
of  the  village,  and  soon  he  was  clambering  over  the  rocks 
towards  it. 

When  he  met  his  friends,  there  was  a  stem  coldness  in 
his  manner,  and  he  replied  fiercely  to  the  greeting  saluta- 
tions of  his  younger  wives,  and  called  for  his  daughter 
Wenona,  whose  mother  had  long  since  been  dead,  to  pre- 
pare him  some  food. 

Wenona  obeyed  with  alacrity  her  father's  commands,  at 
the  same  time  glancing  uneasily  towards  her  two  step- 
mothers, whose  smothered  wrath  she  knew  would  break 
forth  at  some  future  time.  They  sat  silent  on  the  ground 
in  seeming  submission  to  the  will  that  wrested  from  them 
their  rights,  in  favour  of  the  child  of  a  dead  rival ;  but  those 
accustomed  to  read  the  writing  on  a  woman's  countenance, 
could  see  they  were  rebelliously  inclined,  but  were  forced 
to  conceal  their  vexation  under  a  calm  demeanour. 

It  was  in  August,  "the  moon  that  corn  is  gathered." 
Wenona  had  during  the  long  day  paid  the  penalty  of  her 
father's  love ;  she  had  toiled  unceasingly,  though  the  sun 
scorched  her  face  and  bosom;  the  watchful  eyes  of  her 
father's  wives  were  upon  her,  and  when  he  was  absent, 
they  hardly  allowed  her  a  moment's  rest.  Her  young 
companions  wondered  at  the  little  spirit  she  showed;  but 
Wenona  was  of  a  peace-making  disposition,  and  preferred 
submission  to  contention.  The  large  bundles  of  corn  she 
had  gathered  during  the  day  were  hanging  outside  the 


■^mnwmppM 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


107 


wigwam  to  dry.  Not  even  had  she  allowed  herself  time  to 
join  the  other  girls,  who  were  diving  at  noon  in  the  cool 
waters,  and  raising  their  heads  up  to  call  Wenona,  looking 
like  mermaids  as  the  water  flowed  from  their  long,  un- 
braided  hair. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  placed  before  Iron  Heart  his 
evening  meal,  venison  and  boiled  corn — while  her  face  was 
so  good-humoured,  and  her  motions  so  easy  and  graceful, 
that  one  would  suppose  the  wrath  of  the  evil  spirits  them- 
selves would  have  been  disarmed,  much  less  the  anger  of 
those  to  whose  children  she  so  often  sung  sweet  lullabies. 
Iron  Heart  did  not  relish  his  food ;  but  tasting  the  venison, 
then  lighting  his  pipe,  he  appeared  lost  to  what  passed  be- 
fore him :  he  often  looked  in  Wenona's  face,  with  a  strange 
repentant  look,  as  if  he  had  done  her  an  injury,  but  sought 
to  conceal  it  in  his  own  bosom. 

After  a  while  he  rose,  and  joined  a  group  of  warriors, 
who  were  seated  without  the  wigwam,  Wenona  following  in 
his  protecting  shadow,  out  of  the  reach  of  complaint  or  re- 
proof 

The  group  that  Iron  Heart  joined  was  composed  of  the 
principal  men  of  the  band,  who  were  listening  to  the  words 
of  one  of  their  wisest  men.  No  one  interrupted  him,  as  he 
boasted  of  the  feathers  he  had  won,  as  he  told  of  the  bears 
and  buffaloes  he  had  destroyed ;  no  one  showed  impatience 
as  he  dwelt  upon  the  time  when  he  was  young,  and  all  ad- 
mired his  feats  of  valour  and  strength.  Respect  and  atten- 
tion were  on  every  countenance,  as  the  white  hair  of  the 
old  man  was  lifted  from  his  brow  by  the  evening  breeze. 

He  told  them  they  had  loujg  b(;en  at  peace  with  the  Chip- 


108 


THE    IRIS. 


peways ;  their  young  men  were  becoming  like  women,  with- 
out the  ennobling  and  exciting  employment  of  war.  That 
the  edge  of  the  tomahawk  was  blunted  for  want  of  use. 
He  said  the  Chippeways  had  again  intruded  on  their  hunt- 
ing-grounds, and  it  was  time  that  the  war-cry  of  the  Daco 
tas  should  be  heard,  to  show  their  enemies  their  power. 

The  old  man,  who  had  lived  nearly  a  century,  ceased 
speaking,  and  The  Buffalo,  who  leaned  against  a  tree  near 
the  others,  turned  towards  them,  as  if  he,  too,  would  speak. 

"  My  words  are  not  good,  like  the  words  of  the  aged ; 
my  voice  is  low,  like  the  sound  of  the  waters  in  a  small 
stream,  but  the  wise  speak,  and  the  sound  of  the  Father  of 
many  Waters  is  in  your  ears.  But  our  brave  men  say  they 
are  at  peace  with  the  Chippeways:  they  promised  they 
would  bury  the  hatchet  deeper  than  the  roots  of  our  tallest 
trees ;  they  said  we  would  live  together  like  friends,  and 
that  the  war-cry  only  should  be  heard  when  we  joined 
together  against  our  enemies." 

The  old  man  prepared  to  answer  him :  his  limbs  shook 
with  rage  and  excitement ;  he  raised  his  finger,  and  pointed 
towards  The  Buffalo,  then,  when  the  crimson  blood  dyed  his 
cheeks,  he  said,  "  Shame  on  the  coward  who  fears  his  ene- 
mies :  go  gather  corn  with  the  women,  and  the  old  and 
feeble  man  will  die  with  his  tomahawk  raised  against  those 
who  hate  his  nation." 

In  vain  The  Buffalo  essayed  to  speak :  they  would  not 
hear  him ;  and  he  left  the  council  amid  the  sneers  of  all. 

War  was  decided  upon ;  and  night  was  fast  approaching 
when  Wenona,  with  pale  and  agitated  looks,  pressed  for- 


l*llll^pllll.lll,IIIJI 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


109 


ward  among  the  warriors.     "  My  father,"  said  she,  "where 
is  my  brother  ?" 

Iron  Heart  started ;  but  recovering  himself,  he  replied, 
"  I  know  not.     Seek  him  yourself,  if  you  would  find  him." 

"I  have  sought  him,"  she  said,  "but  the  old  woman. 
Flying  Cloud,  tells  me  I  may  seek  him  no  more,  for  she  saw 
his  body  floating  down  the  river,  as  she  came  up  in  her 
canoe.  She  laughed,  too,  and  said  I  would  see  him  one  day 
in  the  land  of  spirits." 

All  looked  towards  Iron  Heart,  but  he  made  his  way 
among  them,  and  returned  to  the  wigwam.  In  vain  We- 
nona  wept,  and  besought  him  to  go  in  search  of  her  brother; 
not  even  would  he  inquire  of  Flying  Cloud. 

"  I  will  go,  then,  and  look  for  him  myself,"  said  the  girl. 
"  Is  he  not  my  brother,  my  mother's  son  ?" 

'Cease  your  noise,"  said  her  father,  sternly.  "If  the 
Great  Spirit  have  called  my  son,  is  he  not  already  a  brave 
warrior  in  the  city  of  spirits  ?" 

Wenona  was  quiet  at  her  father's  rebuke,  but  her  heart 
was  ill  at  ease.  She  hoped  he  would  return  in  the  night. 
She  remembered  that  Flying  Cloud  was  always  bitter  and 
ill-tempered ;  and  besides,  was  not  her  brother  at  home  on 
the  water  ?  Could  he  not  swim  as  easily  as  he  could  tread 
down  the  grass  on  the  prairie  ?  She  reasoned  herself  into 
the  hope  that  Chaske  had  been  tired,  and  had  laid  down  to 
rest:  and  she  fell  asleep  with  the  expectation  that  his 
merry  voice  would  arouse  her  at  break  of  day. 

And  how  did  he  sleep  in  whose  heart  lay  the  secret  of 
the  death  of  his  son  ?  in  whose  ear  was  sounding  the  voice 
of  that  son's  blood  ? 


110 


THE    IRIS. 


* 


« 


* 


In  vain  might  we  seek  to  follow  Wenona  in  her  untiring 
search  for  her  brother — she  knew  all  his  accustomed  haunts 
— at  one  time  making  her  way  over  rock  and  crag,  to  find 
out  the  eagle's  home ;  at  another,  pushing  her  small  canoe 
up  the  stream,  where  the  beavers  made  their  houses ;  weep- 
ing, yet  hoping  too. 

Day  after  day  passed  thus :  and  ever  as  she  returned  to 
the  village  would  Flying  Cloud  tell  her  she  must  go  beyond 
the  clouds  to  seek  him. 

Iron  Heart  neither  assisted  in  the  search  for  the  boy,  nor 
spoke  of  his  loss.  He  was  calm  as  usual :  yet  in  the  last 
four  days  he  seemed  to  have  lived  as  many  years. 

He  employed  himself  sharpening  the  instruments  he  was 
soon  to  use  against  the  Chippeways,  while  hanging  near  the 
medicine-sack,  which  was  attached  to  a  pole  outside  the 
wigwam,  was  a  knife  which  glittered  in  the  sun,  which  was 
only  touched  or  moved  by  himself 

Days  and  weeks  passed  by :  Wenona  ceased  to  look  for  her 
brother,  or  hope  for  his  return ;  yet  still  she  wept.  The 
heart  of  the  motherless  girl  clung  ever  in  thought  to  him 
who  had  been  not  only  her  companion,  but  her  charge  from 
his  birth.  She  had  taken  him  from  her  mother's  bosom 
when  dying ;  she  had  watched  his  childish  sports,  and  sung 
to  him  the  legends  of  her  people.  Could  she  have  closed 
his  eyes,  and  wept  at  his  feet,  her  grief  would  not  have  been 
so  hopeless.  It  often  occurred  to  her  that  her  father  was 
not  unacquainted  with  the  circumstances  of  his  death. 

4:  Hi  ill  Hi  Ht  >H 

Strange  and  solemn  was  the  secret  of  the  death  of  the  In- 


■Pi 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


Ill 


dian  boy.  Dearly  loved  by  his  father,  they  stood  together  one 
day  by  the  river's  side.  "  Did  you  not  say,  my  father,"  said 
the  boy, "  that  we  would  go  to  the  forest  for  the  deer  ?  Let  us 
go  now ;  my  arrows  are  swift  and  strong,  and  to-morrow  the 
girls  will  come  and  help  us  drag  them  in.  Come,  my  father, 
your  looks  have  been  sad  for  many  days,  but  you  will  laugh 
when  you  see  the  red  deer  fall  as  we  strike  them.  The  old 
woman.  Flying  Cloud,"  continued  the  boy,  "says  she  knows 
what  is  going  to  happen  to  me.  She  says  I  will  never  go 
to  war  against  the  Chippeways ;  that  my  knife  shall  never 
sever  the  scalps  from  the  head  of  my  enemy;  that  my  voice 
shall  not  be  heard  in  the  council,  nor  shall  my  wife  ever 
stand  at  the  door  of  her  lodge  to  wait  my  coming.  But  I 
laughed  at  her:  she  is  old  and  poor;  she  loves  not  the  young 
and  happy.  See  her  now,  my  father,  as  she  stands  upon 
that  high  rock,  waving  her  arms  to  me.  What  have  you 
done  to  her  that  she  hates  you  so  ?  She  says  she  has  cast 
a  spell  upon  our  race." 

"  Flying  Cloud  is  not  of  our  clan,  my  son,"  replied  Iron 
Heart ;  "  her  son  died,  and  she  says  my  mother  caused  his 
death.  She  says  she  cannot  die  till  my  mother  is  childless 
like  herself  But  come,  before  the  night  we  must  kill  many 
deer." 

"Is  your  knife  sharp?"  said  the  boy;  "you  know  we  must 
draw  the  skins  off  while  they  are  warm.  My  sister  will 
work  our  moccasins  and  leggins.  She  says  she  is  never  so 
happy  as  when  she  is  sewing  for  me." 

Shall  we  follow  them — shall  we  penetrate  the  deep  forests 
to  see  the  father  raise  his  knife  to  pierce  from  side  to  side 
the  strong,  healthy  frame  of  his  son ! 


112 


THE    IRIS. 


Not  in  anger  did  he  take  the  life  that  was  dearer  to  him 
than  his  own.  Was  the  burden  of  his  sins  lying  heavily 
against  his  heart  ?  Who  shall  tell  his  agony  when  he  saw 
the  blood  flow !  Who  shall  say  how  his  soul  was  wrung 
with  grief  as  the  reproachful  face  of  his  much-loved  child 
was  turned  towards  him  in  death ! 

The  wild  deer  flew  past,  but  he  saw  them  not.  The 
serpent  glided  by  as  it  did  in  Paradise,  but  its  stealthy  mo- 
tion was  unobserved.  The  sweet  song-birds  raised  their 
notes  to  the  sky,  but  they  all  fell  unheeded  on  the  ear  of 
the  father  who  had  taken  the  life  of  his  son. 

Raising  the  form  of  the  boy  in  his  arms,  he  bore  it  care- 
fully to  the  shore,  and  casting  it  where  the  current  hurried 
impetuously  on,  the  dead  boy  was  borne  along  to  share  the 
lot  of  many  who  will  rest  in  their  ocean  grave,  till  the  land 
and  the  sea  shall  alike  give  up  their  dead. 

When  I  reflect  on  the  tradition  of  the  Sioux,  that  once 
only  has  human  life  been  offered  in  sacrifice,  and  then  a 
father  took  the  life  of  his  son — when  in  the  quiet  night  I 
mind  me  of  those  whose  destiny  seems  now  to  be  in  our 
power  for  good  or  evil,  I  remember  that  when  the  world 
was  new,  Abraham,  in  holy  faith,  yet  with  a  breaking  heart, 
led  his  much-loved  child — the  child  of  hope  and  promise,  to 
sacrifice  his  life  in  obedience  to  the  command  of  God.  Can 
you  not  see  his  lip  quiver  and  his  cheek  turn  pale  as  he  lays 
him  on  the  altar?  Can  you  not  hear  the  throbbings  of  his 
heart  as  he  binds  him  to  the  wood  ? 

Abraham's  son  was  spared,  but  I  mind  me  of  another 
sacrifice,  where  God  spared  not  his  own  Son,  but  yielded 
him,  the  pure  and  sinless,  a  sacrifice  for  the  guilt  of  all. 


I'^»" 


A  LULLABY. 


BT     MRS.     MART     KA8THAN. 


Lo !  by  the  river-shore  "Wenona  weeping, 
Lashed  to  its  cradle-bed  her  young  child  sleeping, 
While  'neath  the  forest  trees  the  dead  leaves  lying, 
Mournful,  and  sad,  and  low,  the  autumn  winds  are  sighing. 
Lists  she  to  hear  his  footstep  proud  advancing  ? 
Gazes,  to  see  his  tomahawk  brightly  glancing  ? 
Watching  the  tossing  waves,  weary  and  lonely. 
Faithful  her  breaking  heart,  loving  him  only. 
Raising  her  drooping  form,  hearing  her  infant  cry, 
Pressing  him  to  her  breast,  sings  she  a  lullaby. 


Sleep  on,  my  warrior  son ! 

Ne'er  to  his  childhood's  home. 
Waiting  our  greeting  smile. 

Will  thy  brave  father  come. 


Shouting  the  loud  death-cry 
With  the  grim  warrior  band. 

Singing  the  giant's  songs. 
Dwells  he  in  spirit  land. 

Turning  from  brave  to  brave. 
See  his  keen  eye 


114 


THE    IRIS. 


Ah  ho  glances  around  him, 
And  smiles  scornfully. 

I  knew  when  he  left  me, 

(The  strawberries  grew 
On  the  prairies  green, 

And  the  wild  pigeon  flew 
Swift  o'er  the  spirit  lakes,) 

Then  o'er  my  heart 
Came  a  dark  shadow 

Ne'er  to  depart. 

I  watched,  from  the  door 

Of  my  tupee,*  the  band 
As  they  turned  from  their  home 

To  the  Chippeways'  land. 
I  watched  and  I  wept. 

As  thy  father,  the  last 
Of  the  many  tall  braves. 

From  my  tearful  gaze  passed. 

Wake  not,  my  young  son. 

For  thy  father  sleeps  sound. 
And  his  stiffened  corse  lies 

On  his  enemy's  ground. 
Wake  not,  my  brave  child, 

Thou  wilt  wrestle,  too  soon. 
With  the  miseries  of  life, — 

'Tis  the  red  man's  dark  doom. 

*  Tupcc  is  the  Dacota  word  for  house  or  wigwam. 


»»llll"'" 


A    LULLABY. 

O'er  the  fate  of  the  Indian 

The  Great  Spirit  has  cast 
The  spell  of  the  white  man — 

His  glory  is  past. 
Like  the  day  that  is  dying 

As  fades  the  bright  sun, 
Like  the  warrior  expiring 

When  the  battle  is  done. 

Soon  no  more  will  our  warriors 

Meet  side  by  side, 
To  talk  of  their  nation, 

Its  power  and  pride. 
'Tis  the  white  man  who  rules  us 

And  tramples  us  down ; 
We  are  slaves,  and  must  crouch 

When  our  enemies  frown. 

Sleep  on,  my  young  son, 

I'd  fain  have  thee  know 
As  the  warrior  departs 

Did  thy  brave  father  go. 
He  feared  not  the  white  man. 

While  the  Chippeway  knew 
He  could  boast  when  he  scalped 

The  Dacota  he  slew. 

Sleep  on,  to  our  desolate 

Tupee  we  go ; 
Soon  the  winter  winds  come. 

And  the  cold  and  the  snow. 

8 


115 


116 


H 


THE    IRIS. 

He  is  gone  who  would  bring 

To  us  covering  warm. 
Would  supply  us  with  food, 

And  would  shield  us  from  harm. 

I  have  listened  full  oft, 

As  the  white  woman  told 
Of  the  city  of  life, 

Where  the  bright  waters  rolled; 
Where  tears  never  come, 

Where  the  night  turns  to  day, — 
I  gladly  would  go  there. 

But  know  not  the  way. 

Ah  !  ye  who  have  taken 

From  the  red  man  his  lands. 
Who  have  crushed  his  proud  spirit, 

And  bound  his  strong  hands ; 
If  ye  see  our  sad  race 

In  ignorance  bowed  down, 
And  care  not  to  see  it, 

Ye  have  hearts  made  of  stone. 

Sleep  on,  my  young  son, 

For  soon  will  we  laiow 
If  to  the  heaven  of  the  white  man 

The  Dacota  may  go. 
We  are  children  of  earth. 

We  must  meekly  toil  on 
'Till  the  Great  Spirit  call  us. 

My  warrior  son ! 


oyTup'  K  »stn  ' 


f^V»f*l»'>'  1/  r  e  I  •-/i'  ?>»' 


The    f  hijjjjrw.'i     Ij/f^vn 


W" 


,:.w  ?)}• 


mmm 


SOUNDING  WIND; 

OR,    THE    CUIl'l'EWAY    UUAVE. 

BY  HB8.  HABY   KAHTMAN. 

Hast  tbou  mourned  I  oh  mourn  no  tongor : 
Death  Is  gtrong,  but  Iut*  Ik  utronKiir. 

The  amnesties  that  have  been  made  between  the  Sioux 
and  Chippeways  for  many  yearn  have;  Ixjen  of  short  duration : 
it  appears  now  that  the  two  nations  will  be  friendly  only 
when  the  lion  and  the  lamb  shall  lie  down  together,  should 
the  two  nations  exist  at  that  happy  period.  The  sight  of 
each  other's  blood  is  as  precious  to  a  Chippeway  or  Sioux  as 
would  be  the  secret  of  perpetual  youth  to  an  octogenarian, 
who  eagerly  grasps  his  tenure  for  life,  loving,  and  fearing 
to  lose  it  to  the  last.  At  the  time  of  my  story,  a  longer 
peace  than  usual  had  existed  between  the  two  nations. 
They  hunted  and  danced,  and  even  married  together. 
Many  a.  child,  that  had  never  trembled  at  hearing  the  war- 
whoop,  wondered  at  the  old  men's  stories,  that  invariably 
closed  with  the  triumph  of  the  Dacota  tomahawk  over  the 
weaker  blade  of  the  enemy :  but  that  child  grew  to  be  a 
man  only  to  hate  a  Chippeway,  as  his  father  had  done  in 
youth ;  one  offence  had  brought  on  another,  and  the  slum- 
bering spirit  of  vengeance  that  had  reposed  in  the  hearts  of 
the  red  men  was  roused  up,  and  with  a  double  vengeance 


mmmv^ 


118 


THE    IRIS. 


foe  sought  foe.  In  vain  were  the  women  and  children  hid- 
den in  the  holes  of  the  earth  at  night  for  safety ;  they  were 
hunted  out,  as  the  starving  wolf  scents  its  prey :  after  the 
desperate  fight  was  over,  when  the  strong  were  laid  low, 
then  were  the  aged  and  the  infants  dragged  from  their 
hiding-places. 

The  red  morning  sun,  parting  the  sullen  clouds,  hid  again 
from  the  sight  of  the  blood  that  was  covering  the  ground, 
and  dyeing  the  very  stream  where  but  yesterday  the  village 
belle,  seated  by  its  fair  banks,  listened  to  the  words  that 
every  maiden  loves  to  hear. 

A  sad  scene  was  presented  at  the  village  of  Gray  Eyes : 
the  old  chief  lay  helpless  among  those  who  had  obeyed  his 
slightest  word,  the  glaze  of  death  dimming  an  eye  that  for 
more  than  eighty  winters  had  watched  the  snow,  as  it 
drifted  from  vale  to  vale.  Life  had  not  yet  departed  :  you 
could  feel  the  pulse  still  flutter,  and  the  heart  faintly  beat, 
but  the  thoughts  of  the  chief  were  in  spirit-land,  and  his 
soul  hasted  to  burst  its  prison  bars,  that  it  might  renew  the 
combat  where  the  Dacotas  would  aye  be  the  victors. 

A  gleam  of  life  and  consciousness  passed  over  his  faded 
features,  as  an  Indian  girl  advanced  towards  him :  it  was  a 
child  he  dearly  loved,  soon  to  be  left  without  a  protector. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  the  old  man  feebly,  as  the  maiden 
threw  herself  on  the  ground  beside  him,  and  covered  with 
her  tears  his  cold  hands ;  then  raising  herself,  as  she  saw 
the  wound  still  bleeding,  she  tore  a  piece  from  her  okendo- 
kenda,  and  endeavoured  to  staunch  it.  "  It  is  too  late,  my 
child ;  the  soul  of  your  father  longs  to  join  the  warriors  who 
live  in  the  land  of  spirits.     Where  are  your  brothers  ?" 


UIJIIjlllvll.MI.^IHJIfl 


JMIMKJIWIU'ijaillfH 


•"mf^w 


mmmir,!mmi-m'i 


n»wyHlWWW»^"i^P)pH 


SOUNDING    WIND. 


119 


"  There !"  said  the  weeping  girl,  pointing  to  the  dead 
bodies  that  lay  across  each  other. 

"  And  your  mother  ?" 

"  There  too,"  she  answered ;  "  all  are  gone,  my  father,  but 
you  and  me.  I  knew  how  the  rocks  lay,  and  where  I  could 
hide  myself,  and  there  I  stayed,  hearing  my  mother's  cries, 
and  my  brothers'  sliouts,  as  they  died.  I  saw,  too,  the 
Chippeways,  as  they  carried  away  the  scalps.  When  you 
are  gone  what  will  become  of  me  ?  Who  will  care  for  We- 
nona?" 

"  Not  Wenona,"  said  her  father,  "  but  '  The  Lonely  One.' 
That  will  be  your  name  when  you  will  have  neither  father 
nor  brother  left.  But  see,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  our 
enemies'  blood!  Your  brothers  fought  well:  they  have 
already  passed  the  warriors'  road  to  the  City  of  Spirits." 

His  breath  came  quickly — big  drops  stood  on  his  forehead 
— another  struggle — a  last  sigh — and  Wenona  was  indeed 
"  the  lonely  one." 

The  attack  of  the  night  before  had  not  been  unexpected. 
The  Sioux  had  placed  pickets  around  their  village,  and  a 
guard  had  been  kept ;  but  their  enemies  were  too  wily  for 
them.  The  violent  storm  that  raged  during  the  battle  was 
favourable  to  the  Chippeways ;  they  were  upon  the  Sioux 
ere  the  watches  had  heard  the  slightest  sound,  except  the 
wind,  and  the  peals  of  thunder  that  shook  the  earth.  Some 
escaped  with  their  families  from  the  lower  end  of  the  vil- 
lage, but  almost  all  who  remained  to  fight  for  their  families 
were  raassncred  with  them. 

While  Wenona  awaited  the  struggle,  she  was  overcome 
with  fear  and  excitement ;  but  now  she  was  as  one  without 


i 

I 


120 


THE    IRIS. 


hope.  The  blow  had  been  struck.  Chii)pc\v.ay  and  Sioux 
had  fallen  in  the  death-struggle,  locked  in  the  embrace  which 
bound  foe  to  foe.  She  had  give.j  her  heart's  devoted  love  to 
one  Avhoin  she  must  now  consider  sis  her  enemy.  Sounding 
Wind,  a  noble  young  Ohippeway,  handsome  in  person,  and 
already  favoured  among  his  own  people,  had  jiromised  to 
take  her  to  his  wigwam  when  the  two  nations  were  at  peace, 
though  there  were  many  then  who  foreboded  the  strife  that 
would  rend  the  ties  of  friendship  between  the  nations. 
Even  after  hostilities  had  commenced,  Sounding  Wind  had 
sworn  to  himself  the  woman  he  loved  slioidd  be  his  wife, 
though  every  brave  in  the  nation  might  stand  between  him 
and  the  accomplishment  of  his  vow. 

Wenona,  as  she  rose  from  her  father's  body,  ga./ing  npon 
the  scene  of  terror  before  her,  looked  like  the  Hower  beside 
her,  which  still  reared  its  head,  though  its  fair  companions 
were  all  crushed  to  the  earth  by  the  storm  of  the  night. 
Silence  and  death  reigned  here — nature  was  as  tranquil  as 
the  hearts  of  her  children.  Near  by  swep*^  the  lake  of  the 
thousand  isles :  undisturbed  were  its  waters ;  there  was  no 
requiem  for  the  dead,  even  in  the  passing  breeze. 

" My  heart  weeps,"  murmured  the  girl;  "but  shall  the 
bodies  of  my  friends  remain  until  night  brings  the  wolves 
and  hungry  birds?  Sounding  Wind  has  forgotten  the  maiden 
who  loves  him.  He  told  me  our  village  should  be  safe ;  that 
he  would  talk  like  a  wise  man ;  that  he  would  lead  the  Chip- 
peways  fiir  away  from  us :  that,  as  the  little  islands  sleep 
peacefully  in  the  lake  through  the  h)ng  summer's  day,  so 
might  I  rest  from  fear  for  myself  and  for  my  friends. 

"  I  will  go  alone  and  find  our  people,  that  they  may  come 


SOUNDING    WIND. 


121 


and  help  rae  bury  our  dead.  Why  should  I  fear,  when  all 
who  have  loved  me  are  gone,  and  he  who  once  loved  me 
would  take  my  life  as  he  would  pierce  the  deer  on  tlie  prairie  ?" 

Wearily  she  turned  her  steps,  intending  to  go  to  the  nearest 
village,  avoiding  the  dead  bodies  at  every  step  :  yet  her 
moccasins  were  red  with  blood,  which,  as  she  pursued  her 
w.ay,  crimsoned  the  earth  at  her  feet.  The  reverence  that 
every  Indian  woman  feels  for  all  things  connected  with 
death,  gave  her  courage  to  undertake  the  task  before  her. 
Every  change  in  the  scene  brought  with  it  some  remini- 
scence :  grief  for  the  dead  were  connected  with  each,  but 
there  were  thoughts  of  the  living  hard  to  bear. 

Here  had  she  sat  with  her  mother,  working  with  porcu- 
pine quills  gay  garments  for  her  brothers.  Here  had  she 
stood  and  watched  the  canoe  of  her  lover;  here  had  he 
given  her  the  charm  which  she  still  wore  about  her  neck : 
it  was  to  secure  her  from  any  accident  till  she  had  left  her 
friends,  and  until  the  gods  that  the  Chippeways  worshipped 
were  hers. 

She  pursued  her  way ;  but  as  the  waters  became  bright 
with  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the  pleasant  breezes 
were  wafted  to  the  shore,  a  sense  of  oppression  and  fatigue 
overcame  her. 

In  vain  she  essayed  to  rouse  herself  to  the  task  before 
her :  it  was,  indeed,  in  vain,  for  at  last  she  threw  herself 
under  a  large  tree,  and  yielded  to  the  repose  which  exhausted 
nature  demanded.  She  slept  on  tor  hours  as  calmly  as  if 
she  could  only  remember  and  look  forward  to  joy.  Bright 
eyes  were  glancing  before  her — laughter  greeted  her  ears. 


'Ill  ipPViiiililiPiil 


122 


THE    IRIS. 


she  was  a  child  again  in  her  dreams,  and  passing  over  the 
gay  waters  with  her  boy  lover  by  her  side. 

Sounding  Wind,  we  have  said,  was  already  a  man  of  con- 
sequence in  his  tribe;  but  he  had  refused  to  accompany  the 
war-party  of  the  preceding  night,  nor  did  he  seek  to  hide 
his  reasons.  They  had  lived  peaceably  with  the  band  that 
lived  near  the  Lake  of  the  Thousand  Isles.  While  he  was 
willing  to  resent  the  aggressions  of  the  band  that  by  treach- 
erous acts  had  broken  their  faith,  he  Avould  not  assail  those 
who  had  given  them  no  cause  of  offence. 

A  better  reason  was  in  his  heart :  the  love  he  bore  to  We- 
nona  was  strong,  even  stronger  than  death ;  and  could  he 
raise  a  murderous  tomahawk  against  her  family?  He  was 
anxious  to  know  the  result  of  the  attack  on  the  Sioux.  He 
met  the  Chippeways  as,  taking  the  trail  by  the  river,  they 
were  on  their  way  home. 

Shortly  after  he  joined  them,  they  seated  themselv^es  by 
the  great  tree  whose  branches  sheltered  Wenona.  They 
were  resting  and  eating.  Sounding  Wind  stood  by  them : 
no  one  interfered  with  his  gloomy  mood — there  was  that  in 
him  that  kept  them  in  control.  They  were  all  silent,  when 
suddenly  a  sigh  of  grief  and  fatigue  was  uttered  near  them. 
Startled  by  it,  each  warrior  rose  to  his  feet  and  grasped  his 
knife  and  tomahawk.  Sounding  Wind  sprung  over  the 
bushes  that  were  between  them  and  the  spot  from  whence 
the  sigh  issued. 

At  his  feet,  just  rousing  from  slumber,  was  the  girl  who 
was  dearer  to  him  than  home  or  friends.  One  gleam  of  joy 
at  seeing  her  again,  one  shade  of  terror  at  her  probable  fate, 
and  the  young  man,  placing  himself  between  her  and  the 


SOUNDING    WIND. 


123 


Chippeways  who  had  followed  him,  showed  himself  ready 
to  protect  her  so  long  as  his  arm  could  wield  the  tomahawk 
that  glistened  in  the  sun. 

"  Come  not  towards  her,"  he  said  to  them,  for  they  had 
recognised  her  by  her  dress,  "  she  is  my  prisoner.  I  first 
touched  her — I  claim  her  before  you  all.  I  am  your  chief. 
I  have  led  you  against  the  Sacs  and  Foxes,  and  I  will  lead 
you  against  the  Dacotas,  who  have  become  our  enemies,  but 
this  girl's  life  shall  be  spared,  for  she  is  to  be  my  wife. 

"  I  have  taken  her  prisoner :  I  shall  spare  her  life.  Am  I 
not  a  Chippeway  ?  and  shall  I  forget  my  promise  to  her,  to 
make  her  my  wife  ?" 

Wenona  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  every 
moment  expecting  the  blow  that  would  terminate  her 
sorrows;  but  no  one  offered  to  touch  her.  They  were 
many  and  strong  in  the  love  of  revenge.  Sounding  Wind 
was  but  one ;  but  stronger  than  a  host  was  the  love  that 
made  him  brave  the  stern  spirits  before  him. 

She  arose  at  the  bidding  of  her  lover.  She  eat  of  their 
food,  and  pursued,  without  fear  of  harm,  her  journey  to 
her  new  home.  There,  amid  the  struggles  of  the  Sioux 
arid  Chippeways,  she  was  ever  safe.  And  happy,  too, 
save  when  the  remembrance  of  the  fotc  of  her  family 
came  between  her  and  the  bright  visions  that  cheer  and 
gladden  even  an  Indian  woman's  home,  when  the  love  of 
her  husband  and  children  hallow  it. 


■Ilpp 


AN  INDIAN  BALLAD. 


D»    Mn8.    MABY   EASTMAN. 


"  Take  me  away,"  sairl  one  they  called  the  "Drooping  Eye," 
"  Bear  me  where  stoops  the  deer  to  drink  at  eve." 

She  would  behold  the  clouds  of  heaven  float  gently  by, 
And  iiear  the  birds'  sweet  song  ere  earth  to  leave. 

(Jlose  is  the  wigwam,— oh!  give  her  light  and  air; 

Say,  can  her  spirit  wing  itself  for  flight, 
Losing  the  perfume  borne  from  flowers  fair. 

As  comes  on  them  and  her  the  gloom  of  night? 

On  them  and  her,— but  they  will  bloom  again. 

When  ])rt!aks  the  day  on  earth,  by  sleep  spellbound,— 

Refreshed  by  morning  winds,  or  summer's  rain. 
Gilding  with  colours  bright  the  dewy  ground. 

Oh!  bear  her  gently;  lay  her  feeble  form 

Close  by  the  lake,  where  beam  the  waters  bright : 

Oft  has  she  watched  from  here  the  coming  storm. 
And  oft,  as  now,  the  glow  of  evening's  light. 

Why  weep  her  friends  that  fails  her  parting  breath. 
That  cold  the  pressure  of  her  powerless  hand ! 


wm^wmi^i'^w^ 


AN    INDIAN    BALLAD. 


125 


List ! — Ye  may  hear  from  far  the  voice  of  death, 
Calling  from  earth  her  soul  to  spirits'  land. 

Well  do  they  know  the  fairies  of  the  lake, 

That  with  its  waves  have  mingled  oft  her  tears, 

Here  would  she  nature's  solemn  silence  break 
With  the  death-song  of  woman's  hopes  and  fears. 

I  go,— I  go, 

Where  is  heard  no  more 
The  cry  of  sorrow  or  pain  ; 

I  will  wait  for  you  there. 

Where  skies  are  fair, 
But  I  come  not  to  earth  again. 

Mother,  you  weep ! 
Yet  my  body  will  sleep 
Right  near  you,  by  night  and  by  day  : 
And,  when  comes  the  white  snow, 
You  will  still  weep,  I  know. 
That  the  summer  and  I've  passed  away. 


When  the  storm-spirit  scowls, 
When  the  winter-wind  howls, 

Oh !  crouch  not  in  cowardly  fear. 
Not  unwatched,  then,  the  form 
That  with  ^if:,  once  was  warm, — 

My  spirit  will  ever  be  near. 


126 


THE   inis. 

Mv  sisters !  full  well 
A  dark  tale  I  could  tell, 
IIow  my  lover  iu  death  slumbers  sound : 
My  brother's  strong  arm, 
Made  the  life-blood  flow  warm : 
And  he  laughed  as  it  covered  the  ground 

I  heard  his  deep  sigh, 
I  saw  his  closed  eye, 
I  knew  that  life's  struggle  was  .past. 
When  his  heart  ceased  to  beat, 
Then  I  wept  at  his  feet, — 
My  first  love,  my  only,  my  last. 


Well  my  proud  brother  knew 
That  my  heart  was  as  true 
To  my  love  as  the  bird  to  its  mate. 
I  go  to  him  there. 
Where  flowers  bloom  fair : 
Will  his  spirit  the  Drooping  Eye  wait  ? 

Comes  quickly  my  breath  ! 
The  dampness  of  death, 
Oh !  wipe  from  my  bro\r  with  thy  hand. 
Earth's  sorrows  Jiit  o'er, 
I  may  weep  never  more, — 
Tears  are  not  in  that  bright  spirits'  land. 


OLD  JOHN. 


THE    MEDICINE-MAN. 


BY   MRS.    MART   EASTMAN. 


If  ever  "  life  was  a  fitful  fever,"  it  was  with  Old  John, 
the  Medicine-Man. 

Coining  to  the  Fort  at  times  when  you  would  not  suppose 
any  human  being  would  expose  himself  to  the  elements, — 
always  laughing,  always  hungry — seating  himself  before 
the  fire  to  sleep,  and  starting  up  the  moment  his  eyelids 
closed  over  his  restless,  twinkling  eyes — talking  for  ever 
and  singing  in  the  same  breath — troublesome  and  intrusive, 
yet  always  contriving  to  be  of  use.  And  useful  he  often 
was  to  an  artist  who  was  with  us ;  for  he  v/ould  stand,  sit, 
or  lean,  assuming  and  retaining  the  most  painful  attitudes, 
looking  good-humoured  all  the  time,  and  telling  of  his 
many  wonderful  adventures  and  hairbreadth  escapes. 

He  came  to  us  one  day  in  the  middle  of  winter,  for  the 
picture  of  the  medicine-feast  was  in  progress,  and  he  had 
promised  to  show  how  the  priest  was  to  be  represented, 
that  the  white  people  might  know  in  very  truth  how  were 
conducted  the  sacred  ceremonies  of  the  Dacotas. 

While  he  w^arms  himself,  and  eats,  and  smokes,  he  has 
as  usual  a  great  deal  to  say,  and  this  in  a  half-muttered 


rS^ 


128 


THE    IRIS. 


tone ;  for  he  is  a  little  drowsy  from  the  effect  of  the  tire  on 
his  chilled  limbs. 

He  takes  from  his  head  the  throe-cornered  cloth  h(jod 
which  is  worn  by  the  men  in  severe  weather,  and  thrown 
his  blanket  a  little  fiom  his  shoulders,  diHphiyin^  hin  hand- 
somely embroidered  coat. 

There  is  the  strongest  odour  of  smoke  and  ntale  fobarco 
from  his  dress,  and  he  laughs  heartily  aw  we  throw  open 
the  doors  and  windows  for  the  benefit  of  the  freMh  «i.ir. 

How  many  strange  stories  he  has  of  tlie  diflltntnt  medi- 
cine-feasts, and  in  each  he  figures  largely.  About  Mome 
portions  of  the  dance  he  is  silent ;  you  may  queMtion  him 
closely,  but  you  get  no  satisfactory  answer. 

He  tells  that  the  feast  commences  when  there  Ih  mo  8un 
in  the  heavens;  at  midnight,  when  often  even  the  moon 
and  stars  are  hiding  their  light.  He  cannot  t<!ll  white 
people  what  occurs  then,  nay,  even  the  uninitiated  Indiann 
would  not  dare  intrude  themselves  upon  the  Mcene;  only 
the  medicine-men  and  women  are  allowed  to  Im/  prenent. 
Neither  entreaties  nor  bribes  have  any  effect:  he  will  not 
intrust  to  your  keeping  the  solemn  secret.  All  we  may 
know  of  this  part  of  it  is,  that  the  feast  in  given  in  honour 
of  some  dei)arted  friend,  and  these  ceremonieH  am  taking 
place  near  where  lies  the  body.  A  converHation  Ih  carried 
on  with  the  dead,  and  food  is  placed  near,  tliat  the  spirit 
may  eat. 

"  Bury  my  dead  out  of  my  sight."  ThiM  Ih  not  the  sen- 
timent of  the  Dacota  mourner.  The  niotlier  wantM  her 
child  to  rest  on  the  boughs  of  the  tree,  under  which  she 
has  sat  and  lulled  it  to  sleep  in  her  annn.     H<;re,  whiU? 


OLD    JOHN. 


129 


she  works,  she  can  see  its  form  swayed  by  the  branches, 
rocked  by  the  summer  winds  :  its  innocent  spirit,  according 
to  her  faith,  must  still  guard  the  decaying  frame.  She 
feels  not  the  separation  so  keenly,  when  she  fancies  the 
soul  of  her  firstrborn  is  hovering  round  her.  She  steals 
away  from  the  noisy  revelling  in  the  wigwam  to  weep. 
She  can  hardly  recall  the  bright  eye  and  healthy  glow, 
which  once  belonged  to  the  lost  one,  but  the  suffering 
countenance  and  wasting  frame  are  ever  before  her;  and 
in  the  loud  call  of  the  night-bird,  she  often  fancies  she 
hears  again  the  cry  with  which  her  young  child  yielded  up 
its  life. 

Old  John  is  telling  of  the  medicine-feast.  He  shows  us 
the  medicine-bag  which  he  uses :  it  is  an  otter  skin,  though 
sometimes  a  mink,  a  swan,  or  even  a  snake,  is  used,  and 
often  has  he  performed  wonderful  cures,  or  executed  ter- 
rible vengeance,  by  the  power  of  this  medicine-bag. 

He  will  not  say  what  is  the  medicine  which  the  skin 
contains ;  whether  it  is  a  root,  or  the  leaf  of  a  tree,  a  pre- 
cious gum,  a  mineral  substance,  or  the  bone  of  some  animal 
which  has  been  preserved  for  centuries.  He  says  that  he 
breathed  into  the  nostrils  of  the  dead  animal,  and  thus 
imparted  to  it  qualities  which  made  it  sacred.  Thus  has 
he  often  restored  to  life  the  dying  man,  and  by  the  same 
power  has  he  cast  the  spell  of  misfortune,  disease,  and  even 
death,  upOL  one  he  hated.  This  is  why  he  is  so  much 
feared. 

Feared  by  all,  but  most  by  the  women.  Old  John's  eyes 
twinkled  until  you  could  only  see  a  black  line,  when  he  told 
how  he  could  frighten  the  women  in  the  dance,  by  holding 


■jpif.^wiffrnf' 


WllHJlfP^LWlfl^,  I 


130 


THE    IRIS. 


towards  them  the  skin  which  contained  the  medicine  of  his 
clan. 

As  if  to  afford  him  an  opportunity  of  proving  the  truth 
of  his  statements,  two  or  three  squaws  had  just  brought 
venison  to  the  kitchen,  and  we  sent  for  them  to  pay  them, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  give  them  the  chance  of  talking 
a  little — a  privilege  of  which  all  women  are  glad  to  avail 
themselves. 

The  picture  was  half  done ;  the  medicine-man  was  to  be 
represented  jumping  towards  the  women,  with  his  dreaded 
medicine-bag ;  and  Old  John  assured  us  it  was  invariably 
the  case  that  the  person  he  selected  from  the  crowd  fell 
down  as  if  in  a  fit.  This,  he  insisted,  was  purely  the  effect 
of  his  medicine.  He  offered  to  prove  this  by  exercising  his 
prerogative  as  a  medicine -man  upon  the  women  who  had 
just  entered  the  room.  The  women  were  much  fatigued, 
and  glad  of  a  chance  to  rest.  They  little  expected  to  see 
any  part  of  a  medicine-feast  celebrated  in  a  white  man's 
house. 

The  artist  seated  himself  before  his  easel,  and  com- 
menced sketching  the  figure  of  the  medicine-man.  Old 
John  stoops,  and  holds  the  bag  with  both  hands,  as  if  ready 
to  dart  it  towards  some  person.  You  wonder  how  he  can 
retain  his  painful  position  so  long  a  time.  The  veins  in  his 
temple  swell,  and  his  hands  tremble,  yet  he  does  not  offer 
to  move  until  the  sketch  is  made.  Then,  when  told  he  is 
at  liberty  to  sit  down,  he  gives  a  merry,  mischievous  look 
towards  us,  and  commences  going  round  the  room,  singing 
with  a  loud  voice,  holding  the  bag  as  if  about  to  avenge  on 
some  one  present  a  long-remembered  injury. 


OLD    JOHN. 


131 


The  women  were  taken  completely  by  surprise.  From 
the  moment  Old  John  commenced  his  performance  in  ear- 
nest^ they  showed  every  symptom  of  terror,  now  covering 
their  faces  with  their  hands,  and  crying  "Enah!  Enah!" 
and  again,  as  the  medicine>man  passed  round  the  room, 
looking  after  him  as  if  he  were  something  supernatural, 
instead  of  being  a  compound  of  art  and  wickedness.  He 
was  now  going  to  embrace  the  opportunity  that  had  pre- 
sented itself  to  convince  us  of  the  ease  with  which  he  could 
excite  the  superstitious  fears  of  these  women. 

He  continued  going  round  the  room  in  measured  time, 
and  it  was  impossible  not  to  observe  the  increasing  awe 
which  was  stealing  upon  the  women.  He  kept  perfect  time 
to  his  own  music,  stopping  the  while,  as  if  absorbed  in  the 
thoughts  attendant  on  the  celebration  of  a  religious  cere- 
mony— ^when  suddenly  he  sprang  towards  the  women,  hold- 
ing the  bag  close  in  the  face  of  one  of  them. 

The  woman  sank  to  the  ground :  a  severe  and  stunning 
blow  could  not  have  had  a  more  immediate  effect  on  her 
system  than  the  terror  into  which  she  had  been  thrown. 
She  lay  on  the  ground  motionless,  with  her  hands  pressed 
over  her  eyes.  Old  John,  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  result 
of  his  experiment,  laid  down  his  medicine-bag,  and  seated 
liimself  on  the  carpet. 

We  spoke  to  the  woman,  and  endeavoured  to  rouse  her. 
For  some  nf/nutes  she  appeared  not  to  hear;  but,  after 
arising,  she  looked  as  pale  and  ill  as  if  she  had  indeed  been 
in  the  presence  of  an  evil  spirit ;  and  she  was  at  that  very 
time,  for  I  doubt  if  in  the  Sioux  or  any  other  country  a 


132 


THE    IRIS. 


more  determined  and  hopeless  reprobate  could  be  found 
than  Old  John. 

I  wondered  to  observe  the  trepidation  into  which  a 
female  of  so  strong  and  healthy  a  frame  could  be  thrown. 
To  what  could  it  be  ascribed,  but  to  the  influence  of  an  all- 
powerful  superstition  on  a  mind  chained  by  ignorance  to  its 
natural  estate  of  dark  degradation? 

Among  the  most  curious  ideas  of  the  Sioux  are  those 
concerning  the  Aurora  Borealis,  which  is  considered  a  kind 
of  goddess  of  v  f  Old  John  will  tell  you  all  about  her; 
for  not  only  is  h  'villed  in  all  that  relates  to  the  mys- 
teries of  his  religion,  but,  if  you  will  take  his  word  for  it, 
he  has  seen  all  kinds  of  visions.  He  will  tell  you  how  the 
gods  look — ^for  he  has  seen  them  at  different  times — and  to 
no  better  person  could  you  apply  for  information  about  the 
Aurora  (as  they  call  her,  Waken-kedan,  the  old  woman). 
He  will  tell  you  that  she  is  one  of  their  chief  objects  of 
worship ;  that  her  favour  and  protection  are  invoked  as  a 
necessary  preparation  for  going  to  war. 

Old  John  declares  he  has  had  several  visions  of  the  god- 
dess. When  she  has  appeared  to  him,  she  has  given  him 
the  most  minute  directions  as  to  the  hiding-places  of  the 
enemy.  Sometimes  she  insures  success  to  the  party ; — if, 
however,  she  predicts  misfortune,  it  is  sure  to  occur. 

The  goddess,  he  says,  wears  little  hoops  on  her  arms. 
When  she  appears  to  the  war-chief,  if  they  are  to  be  suc- 
cessful, she  throws  as  many  of  these  hoops  on  the  ground 
as  they  are  to  take  scalps.  These  hoops  resemble  the 
hoops  that  the  Indians  use  in  stretching  the  scalps  of  their 
enemies,  when  they  are  preparing  for  the  scalp  dance. 


OLD    JOHN. 


133 


But,  should  the  goddess  throw  broken  arrows  on  the 
ground,  woe  to  the  war-party !  for  this  tells  the  chief  how 
many  of  his  comrades  are  to  be  scalped,  an  arrow  for  a 
scalp. 

Sometimes,  when  the  successful  party  is  on  its  return,  it 
is  made  more  triumphant  by  the  appearance  of  the  goddess. 
She  does  not  then  take  the  form  of  a  woman,  but  quietly 
enfolds  the  heavens  with  her  robe  of  light.  This  they 
interpret  as  a  favourable  omen.  The  heavens,  they  say, 
are  rejoicing  on  their  account;  the  stars  shine  out  brighter 
in  honour  of  their  victory;  while,  to  use  the  Indian  war- 
rior's own  words,  it  is  as  if  their  goddess  said  to  them, 
"Rejoice  and  dance,  my  grandchildren,  for  I  have  given 
you  victory."  "  The  old  woman,"  he  says,  wore  a  cap,  on 
the  top  of  which  were  little  balls  or  knots,  of  the  same  kind 
with  which  warriors  adorn  themselves  after  having  killed 
an  enemy.  She  held  in  her  hand  an  axe,  with  a  fringe 
fastened  to  the  handle:  this  represents  an  axe  that  has 
killed  an  enemy,  as  it  is  a  universal  custom  among  the 
Sioux  to  attach  a  strip  of  some  kind  of  animal  to  the  im- 
plement that  was  used  in  battle. 

The  Aurora  appears  and  disappears  at  the  pleasure  of  the 
goddess,  or  as  she  is  sometimes  called,  "the  old  woman  who 
sits  in  the  north."  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the 
minds  of  this  people  should  be  thus  impressed  with  the  bril- 
liant flashing  of  the  Aurora,  in  their  far  northern  home. 

Her  appearance  is  not  always  considered  a  favourable 
omen.  Sometimes  it  is  a  warning  of  coming  danger.  The 
mind,  overwhelmed  with  ignorance  and  superstition,  is  apt 
to  read  darkly  the  signs  of  nature ;  while  a  prospect  of  sue- 


<' 


134 


THE    IRIS. 


cess  in  any  contemplated  undertaking  will  change  the  inter- 
pretation. 


* 


« 


* 


* 


* 


* 


Old  John  loves  to  tell  of  another  of  his  gods,  the  meteor; 
of  this  god  they  stand  in  great  awe,  calling  him  Waken-ne- 
ken-dah,  or  man  of  fire.  He  strides  through  the  air  to 
punish  recreant  Indians,  who  forget  the  claims  of  the  Great 
Spirit  upon  them.  Around  this  god  is  ever  a  circle  of  fire, 
while  small  meteors  flow  from  this  "great  fiery  man."  In 
each  hand  he  holds  a  war-club  of  bone,  and  every  blow  is 
fatal  to  that  Sioux  who  deserves  his  condemnation.  He  is 
said  to  be  very  wily,  attacking  the  Indians  when  they  are 
asleep. 

On  this  account  Sioux  are  often  timid  about  sleeping  out 
of  doors ;  they  have  traditions  of  Indians  having  been  car- 
ried oif  by  these  errant  meteors. 

Old  John  thinks  the  "  great  fiery  man"  does  not  deserve 
a  reputation  for  bravery,  as  he  never  attacks  a  waking  foe. 
He  says  there  was  once  a  Sioux  who,  tired  and  sleepy,  laid 
down,  rolling  himself  in  his  blanket,  though  the  weather 
was  hot,  for  the  musquitoes  were  biting  him,  and  rendering 
it  impossible  that  he  should  obtain  any  rest.  The  first 
thing  of  which  he  was  conscious  was  the  sensation  of  being 
whirled  through  the  air,  passing  over  miles  of  prairies  and 
forests  with  the  speed  of  light. 

All  at  once  they  approached  a.  small  pond,  which  was  full 
of  mallard  duck.  The  appearance  of  the  meteor  threw  the 
inhabitants  of  the  lake  into  the  greatest  trepidation,  and  in 
consequence  a  most  unearthly  quacking  took  place.  The 
fiery  man  not  being  aware  of  the  cause  of  this  commotion, 


OLD    JOHN. 


135 


never  having  seen  a  duck,  dropped  his  affrighted  burden, 
gladly  making  his  way  back  to  the  regions  of  space. 

But  it  will  be  impossible  to  get  anything  more  from  Old 
John  to-day :  the  savoury  fumes  of  the  kitchen  have  reached 
our  sitting-room.  He  has  done  with  the  arts  and  with  reli- 
gion ;  he  is  enough  of  a  philosopher  to  take  the  goods  "  the 
gods  provide :"  and  the  hearty  dinner  that  he  ate  showed 
that  the  mystical  attributes  of  a  medicine-man  did  not  pro- 
hibit him  from  the  indulgence  of  his  appetite ;  while  the 
Sioux  women  were  well  repaid  for  their  venison  and  their 
fright  by  some  gaudy  calico,  for  okendokendas,  and  a  few 
needles,  thread,  and  some  other  "  notions,"  of  great  value 
among  them. 


A  REMONSTRANCE. 

BY   ELIZA   L.    8PB0AT. 

While  the  warm,  sweet  earth  rejoices, 
And  the  forests,  old  and  dim. 

Populous  with  little  voices. 
Raise  their  trilling  hymn, — 

Chime  our  notes  in  joyous  pleading 
With  the  million-toned  day ; 

We  are  young,  and  Time  is  speeding — 
Sweet  Time,  stay ! 

We  would  hold  the  hasty  hours, 
Ope  them  to  the  glowing  core, 

Leaf  by  leaf,  like  folded  flowers, 
Till  they  glow  no  more. 

We  are  mated  with  the  Present, 
Bosom  friends  with  dear  To-day : 

Loving  best  the  latest  minu.;e. 
Sweet  Time,  stay ! 


Sovereign  Youth !  all  dainty  spirits 
Wait  on  us  from  earth  and  air; 

From  the  common  life  distilling 
But  its  essence  rare. 


A    REMONSTRANCE. 


137 


Golden  sounds,  to  Age  so  leaden, 

Eden  sights,  to  Age  so  drear  : 
Sweet  illusions,  subtle  feelings, 

Age  would  smile  to  hear. 

Happy  Youth !  when  fearless  bosoms 

With  their  wealth  of  follies  rare. 
Loose  their  thoughts,  like  summer  blossoms, 

To  the  generous  air, 
When  we  sit  and  mock  at  sorrow. 

Looking  in  each  other's  eyes ; 
Greeting  every  new  to-morrow 

With  a  new  surprise. 

Father  Time,  if  thou  wert  longing 

For  a  luxury  of  rest, 
I  know  where  the  moss  is  greenest, 

Over  toward  the  west : 
I  rt'ould  hide  thee  where  the  shadows 

Cheat  the  curious  eye  of  day ; 
I  would  bury  thee  in  blossoms — 
Sweet  Time,  stay ! 

Where  the  bees  are  ever  prosing. 

Lulling  all  the  air  profound ; 
Where  the  wanton  poppies,  dozing, 

Hang  their  heads  around ; 
Where  the  rill  is  tripping  ever. 

Trilling  ever  on  its  way, 
Tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

All  the  happy  day. 


138 


THE    IRIS. 


I  would  keep  thee  softly  dreaming, 

Dreaming  of  eternity, 
Till  the  birds  forget  their  sleeping 

In  the  general  glee ; 
Till  the  stars  would  lean  from  heaven 

In  the  very  face  of  day. 
Looking  vainly  for  the  even — 
Sweet  Time,  stay ! 

Hope  is  with  us,  chaunting  ever 

Of  some  fair  untried  to  be ; 
Lurking  Love  hath  prisoned  never 

Hearts  so  glad  and  free : 
Yet,  unseen,  a  fairy  splendour 

O'er  the  prosing  world  he  flings; 
Everywhere  we  hear  the  rushing 

Of  his  rising  wings. 

As  the  tender  crescent  holdeth 
All  the  moon  within  its  rim, 

So  the  silver  present  foldeth 
All  the  future  dim : 

Oh !  the  prophet  moon  is  sweetest, 
And  the  life  is  best  to-day ; 

Life  is  best  when  Time  is  fleetest — 
Sweet  Time,  stay ! 


A  FINE  ART  DISREGARDED. 

BT  ELIZABETH  WETHERELL, 
AUTHOR  or  "THK  WIDE,  WIDI  WORLD." 

"  A  man  that  looks  on  glass 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye ; 
Or,  if  he  pleasetb,  through  it  pass : 
And  then  the  heaTen  espy." 


I  TOOK  a  walk  with  my  father  last  evening.  Now  the 
pleasure  of  this  walk  was  so  great  that  I  will  even  jot 
down  some  notes  of  its  history. 

It  was  just  the  pretty  time  of  a  summer's  day, — the 
sun's  "parting  smile,"  when  he  has  a  mind  to  leave  a 
pleasant  impression  behind  him  :  the  hot  hours  were  past ; 
the  remnant  of  a  sweet  north  wind,  which  had  been  blow- 
ing all  day,  just  filled  the  sails  of  one  or  two  sloops,  and 
carried  them  lazily  down  the  bay;  and  the  sun,  having 
taken  up  his  old  trade  of  a  painter,  coloured  their  white 
caiivass  for  the  very  spots  it  filled  in  the  picture  :  the  same 
witching  pencil  was  upon  a  magnificent  rose-bush  at  the 
foot  of  the  lawn,  tinting  its  flowers  for  fairy-land ;  and  had 
laid  little  stripes  of  fairy  light  across  the  lately-mown  grass ; 
and,  through  a  slight  haze  of  the  delicious  atmo.'j<hore,  the 
hills  were  mellowed  to  a  painter's  wish. 

My  father  and  I  strolled  down  the  walk,  and  took  one  or 
two  turns  almost  in  silence,  tasting  all  this  too  keenly  at 
first  to  say  much  about  it.    There  were  beauties  near  hand 


140 


THE    IRIS. 


too.  The  rose-trees  had  shaken  out  all  their  luxuriance, 
and  defied  the  eye  to  admire  aught  else.  Yet,  but  for 
them,  there  was  enough  to  be  admired.  The  pure  Cam- 
panulas looked  modestly  confident  of  attractions ;  little 
Gilias  filled  their  place  in  the  world  passing  well;  the 
sweet  double  pinks  gave  us  a  most  good-humoured  face  as 
we  went  by;  the  tall  white  lily-buds  showed  beautiful 
indications;  and  some  rare  geraniums,  and  my  splendid 
English  heart's-ease  quietly  disdained  or  declined  competi- 
tion. And  in  that  evening-light,  even  the  flowers  of  hum- 
bler name  and  lower  pretension,  looked  as  if  they  cared  not 
for  it.  Sprawling  bachelor's-buttons,  and  stiff  sweet-wil- 
liams, and  pert  chrysanthemums,  all  were  pretty  under  the 
sun's  blessing ;  I  think  none  were  overlooked. 

"  How  much  pleasure  we  take  in  at  the  eye !"  said  my 
father. 

"  Where  the  eye  has  been  opened,"  said  I. 

"Ay.  How  many  people  go  through  the  world  with 
their  eyes  tight  shut; — not  certainly  to  every  matter  of 
practical  utility,  but  shut  to  all  beautiful  ends." 

"  Oh,  those  practical  eyes ! — the  eyes  that  have  no  vision 
but  for  the  useful, — what  wearisome  things  they  are !" 

"  It  is  but  a  moderate  portion  of  the  useful  that  they 
see,"  said  my  father ; — "  it  was  not  an  empty  gratuity  that 
things  were  made  *  pleasant  to  the  eyes.' " 

"  But  how  the  eye  needs  to  be  educated,"  said  I. 

"Rather  the  mind,  Cary,"  said  my  father.  "Let  the 
mind  be  educated  to  bring  its  faculty  and  taste  into  full 
play,  and  it  will  train  its  own  spies  fast  enough." 


A    FINE    ART    DISREGARDED. 


141 


"  It  was  that  I  meant,  papa, — that  cultivation  of  taste ; — 
I  was  thinking,  before  you  spoke  what  a  blessing  it  is." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  my  father ;  "  with  that  piece  to  bring 
down  game,  one  is  in  less  danger  of  mental  starvation.  But 
hush ;  here  comes  somebody  that  won't  understand  you." 

And  as  he  spoke,  I  saw  the  trim  little  figure  of  Mrs. 
Roberts,  one  of  our  neighbours,  come  in  sight  round  a  turn 
in  the  shrubbery. 

"  What  a  lovely  evening,  Mrs.  Roberts,"  said  I,  as  we  met. 

"Delicious! — such  charming  weather  for  the  grass  and 
the  dairy,  and  everything.  It  was  so  fine,  I  told  Mr. 
Roberts  I  would  just  run  down  and  see  your  mamma  for  a 
minute ;  I  wanted  to  ask  her  a  question.  I  shall  find  her 
at  home,  shan't  I?" 

I  satisfied  Mrs.  Roberts  on  that  point,  and  my  father  and 
I  turned  to  walk  back  to  the  house  with  her,  thinking  that 
our  pleasure  was  over. 

"  The  roses  are  in  great  beauty  now,"  I  remarked. 

"Beautiful! — and  what  an  immense  quantity  of  them 
you  have.  I  don't  know  what  ails  our  roses,  but  we  can't 
make  them  do,  somehow.  They  seem  to  get  a  kind  of 
blight  when  they're  about  half  open,  and  what  are  not 
blighted  are  full  of  bugs.  What  do  you  do  with  the  bugs? 
I  don't  see  that  you  have  any." 

I  suggested  the  effectiveness  of  daily  hand-picking. 

"Oh,  but  bless  me!  it's  so  much  trouble.  Mr.  Roberts 
would  never  let  the  time  be  taken  for  it.  How  stout  your 
grass  is !  It's  a  great  deal  stouter  than  ours.  There's  half 
as  much  again  of  it,  I'm  sure.  And  you're  cutting  it!  We 
haven't  begun  to  cut  yet ;  Mr.  Roberts  thought  he'd  let  it 


142 


THE    IRIS. 


stand  as  long  as  he  could,  to  give  it  a  chance;  but  I'm  sure 
it's  time.  What  do  you  do  with  all  your  roucMV — make 
rose-water?" 

I  said  no. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  quantity!  I'll  tell  you  what — if 
you'll  send  me  a  basket  or  two  of  'em,  Vll  nuikc  Home  rose- 
water,  and  you  shall  have  half  of  it.  Oh,  what  Ijcautiful 
heart's-ease !  My  dear  Caroline,  you  must  juHt  give  mc  one 
of  those  for  my  girls,  for  a  pattern ;  you  know  they  are 
making  artiiicial  flowers,  and  they  want  some  of  tlioHC  for 
their  bonnets.  Really,  they  are  quite  equal  to  the  French 
ones,  /think,  and — thank  you! — that  is  superb.  Now,  my 
dear  Caroline,  one  more — that  one  with  so  much  yellow  in 
it; — want  a  little  variety,  you  know.  They  will  be  de- 
lighted.   You  know  it  is  just  the  fashion." 

"  I  did  not,  indeed,  Mrs.  Roberts." 

"Didn't  you?  They  wear  little  open  borinciiH  of  some 
light  straw — rice  is  the  prettiest,  or  some  kind  of  open- 
work— and  here,  at  the  side,  just  here,  a  bunch  c)f  heart's- 
ease,  right  against  the  side  of  the  head; — it  is  very  elegant." 

"  Caroline  has  bad  taste,"  said  my  father  gravely ;  "  she 
never  wears  heart's-ease  in  a  bonnet." 

"  0  no,  of  course,  not  these, — she  is  too  careful  of  them — 
but  you  know  false  heart's-ease,  I  mean.  No,  go  on  with 
your  walk — ^you  shall  not  come  in — I  am  not  going  to  stay 
a  minute." 

And  my  father  and  I  quietly  turned  al>out  and  went 
down  the  walk  again. 

"  False  heart's-ease !"  said  my  father. 


A    FINE    ART    DISREGARDED. 


143 


"What  a  different  thing  all  this  scene  is  to  those  eyes, 
and  to  ours,  papa." 

"Yes,"  said  my  father.  "Poor  woman! — she  carries  a 
portable  kitchen  and  store-closet  in  her  head,  I  believe,  and 
everything  she  sees  goes  into  the  one  or  the  other." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Roberts!"  said  I,  laughing.  "Now  that  is 
the  want  of  cultivation,  papa." 

"Not  entirely,  perhaps.  There  must  be  soil  first  to 
cultivate,  Gary." 

"  Well,  her  want  is  the  same.  And  how  much  is  lost  for 
that  want !" 

"Lost? — ^what  is  lost?"  said  another  voice  behind  us; 
and  turning,  we  welcomed  another  and  a  very  different 
neighbour,  in  our  old  friend  Mr.  Ricardo. 

"What  is  lost?" 

"Happiness,"  said  I. 

"Forthe  want  of  what?" 

"  For  the  want  of  a  cultivated  taste." 

"  Pshaw !"  said  Mr.  Ricardo,  letting  go  my  hand.  "  That 
has  nothing  to  do  with  happiness." 

"Do  you  think  so,  sir?" 

"Certainly.  What  can  a  cultivated  taste  do  for  you,  but 
create  imaginary  wants,  that  you  would  do  just  as  well 
without?" 

"If  you  have  not  them,  you  htive  not  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  gratifying  them." 

"  Well,  and  what  if  you  haven't  ?  How  are  you  the  worse 
oflf?     The  want  that  is  not  known  is  not  felt." 

"  But  the  range  of  pleasure  is  a  very  different  thing  with- 
out them,"  said  I. 


144 


THE    IBIS. 


"And  character  is  a  very  different  thing,"  yaid  my  father. 

"  Character  ?"  said  Mr.  Ricardo. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  father. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  you  make  thai  out." 

"And  so  should  I,"  said  I.  "I  was  arguing  only  for 
enjoyment — I  did  not  venture  so  far  as  that." 

"  Well,  enjoyment,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo.  "  Do  you  think 
you  have  more  enjoyment  here  now,  than  one  of  the  plain 
sons  of  the  soil,  who  would  see  nothing  in  roses  but  roses, 
and  who  would  call  'Viola  tricolor'  a  *  Johnny-jump-up?'  " 

"In  the  first  place,  learning  is  not  taste;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  you  do  not  mean  what  you  say,  Mr.  Ricardo. 
You  know  what  Dr.  Johnson  says  of  the  quart  pot  and  the 
pint  pot — both  may  be  equall;  full,  but  the  one  holds  twice 
as  much  as  the  other." 

"Ah,  Dr.  Johnson!"  said  Mr.  Ricardo,  with  an  odd  little 
flourishing  wave  of  his  hand;  "you  delude  yourself!  The 
quart  pot  is  twice  as  likely  to  be  spilled.  If  you  have  some 
pleasures  that  other  peopla  haven't,  you  have  pains  of  your 
own,  too,  that  they  are  exempt  from.  Now  I  suppose  a 
little  mal-adjustment  of  proportions — a  little  deviating  from 
the  exquisite  line  of  correctness  in  men  or  things — would 
overturn  your  whole  cup  of  enjoyment,  while  his  or  mine 
would  stand  as  firm  as  ever." 

"  But  perhaps  a  sip  of  mine  would  be  worth  his  entire 
cupful." 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo,  not  minding  me,  "I  fell  in 
with  a  family  once — it  was  at  the  West,  when  I  was  travel- 
ling there.  They  were  good,  plain,  sensible,  excellent 
people,  happy  in  each  other,  and  contented  with  the  rest 


A    FINE    ART    DISREGARDED. 


145 


of  the  world.  They  had  everything  within  themselves,  and 
lived  in  the  greatest  comfort,  and  harmony,  and  plenty.  I 
was  with  them  several  days,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
people  could  not  be  happier  than  they  were." 

"But  for  your  bringing  them  up  as  instances,  I  sup- 
pose their  having  *  everything  within  themselves'  did  not 
include  the  pleasures  of  a  cultivated  intelligence  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  they  would  have  quoted  Dr. 
Johnson  to  me.  But  now  of  what  use  to  them  would  be 
all  that  extra  cultivation?" 

"  Of  what  use  to  you,"  said  my  father,  "  is  that  window 
you  had  cut  in  your  library  this  spring,  that  looks  to  the 
west?" 

"  Of  very  little  use,"  said  Mr.  llicardo,  "  for  my  wife  sits 
in  it  all  the  time." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Ricardo!"  said  I,  laughing. 

"Well,  now,"  said  he,  but  his  face  gave  way  a  little, 
"how  arc  you  any  better  ofi'than  thoscj  people?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  make  myself  m  oxiimple,  sir;  but  put 
them  down  here  this  evening,  and  vvliat  would  they  see  in 
all  this  that  we  have  been  enjoying  ?" 

"  They  would  see  what  you  see,  I  suppose.  They  luid 
reasonably  good  eyes — they  were  not  microscopes  or  tele- 
scopes." 

"Precisely,"  said  my  father.  "They  would  see  what 
mere  ordinary  vision  couhl  take  in,  witJumt  the  quick  dis- 
cernment of  finely  trained  sensibiHtlcs,  and  without  the  far- 
reaching  and  wide  views  of  a  mind  rich  in  knowledge  and 
associations.     Where  cultivated  senses  find  a  rare  mingling 


146 


THE    IRIS. 


of  flavours,  theirs  would  at  best  only  perceive  the  difference 
of  stronger  or  fainter— of  more  or  less  sweet." 

"  Senses  literal  or  figurative,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Both,"  said  my  father.  '"  You  rarely  find  the  one  culti- 
vated without  the  other." 

"You  may  find  the  other  without  the  one,"  said  Mr. 
Ricardo.  "I  knew  a  man  once  who  had  no  aptness  for 
anything  but  judging  of  wines,  and  he  was  curious  at  that. 
He  did  it  mostly  by  the  sense  of  smell,  too.  All  the  mind 
the  man  had  seemed  to  reside  in  his  nose." 

"  That  is  an  instance  of  morbid  development,"  said  my 
father,  smiling,  "not  in  point." 

"  You  would  have  thought  it  was  in  point,  if  you  had 
seen  him,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo,  glancing  at  my  father. 

"  But  the  pleasures  of  a  cultivated  taste,  Mr.  Ricardo," 
said  I,  "  may  be  constantly  enjoyed ;  and  they  are  some  of 
the  purest,  and  most  satisfying,  and  most  unmixed  that  we 
have." 

"  And,  I  maintain,  of  the  most  useful,"  said  my  father. 

"  To  the  character,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo.  "  But  I  do  not 
believe  that,  where  they  most  prevail,  are  to  be  found  in 
general  the  strongest  minds  or  the  most  hopeful  class  of 
our  population." 

"  My  good  sir,"  said  my  father,  "  do  not  confound  things 
that  have  nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  That  may  be 
true,  and  it  may  be  equally  true  of  sundry  other  matters, 
such  as  correct  pronunciation  and  the  usages  of  polite  society, 
Mocha  coJQfee  and  fine  broadcloth, — none  of  which,  I  hope, 
have  any  deleterious  effect  upon  mind." 


A    FINE    ART    DISREGARDED. 


147 


"  Well,  go  on,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo,  without  looking  at  him, 
''  let  us  hear  how  you  make  out  your  case." 

•'  Learning  to  draw  nice  distinctions,  to  feel  shades  of  dif- 
ference, becoming  alive  to  the  perception  and  enjoyment  of 
most  fine  and  delicate  influences,  the  mind  acquires  a  habit 
of  being  which  will  discover  itself  in  other  matters  than 
those  of  pure  taste.  This  faculty  of  nice  discrimination  and 
quick  feeling  cannot  be  in  high  exercise  in  one  department 
alone,  without  being  applied  more  or  less  generally  to  other 
subjects.  It  will  develope  itself  in  the  ordinary  intercourse 
and  relations  of  social  and  domestic  life,  and  the  temkncf/ 
will  be  to  the  producing  or  perfecting  of  that  nice  sense  of  pro- 
prieties, that  quick  feeling  of  what  is  due  to  or  from  others, 
which  we  call  tact." 

"  But  tact  cannot  be  given,  papa,"  said  I. 

"  And  how  is  it  useful  if  it  could  ?"  said  Mr.  Ricardo. 

"  Useful  ?"  said  my  father,  meditating — "  why,  sir,  the 
want  of  it  is  a  death-blow  to  I  know  not  what  proportion  of 
the  efforts  that  are  made  after  usefulness.  How  many  an 
appeal  from  the  pulpit  has  been  ruined,  simply  by  bringing 
in  a  coarse  or  unhappy  figure,  which  the  speakers  want  of 
cultivation  did  not  allow  him  to  appreciate !  How  many  a 
word,  intended  for  counsel  or  kindness,  has  fallen  to  the 
ground,  because  the  kindly  person  did  not  know  how  to 
work  out  his  intentions !" 

"  But,  you  cannot  give  tact,  father,"  I  repeated. 

"  No,  Cary — that  is  true — tact  cannot  be  given;  it  is  the 
growth  only  of  minds  endowed  with  peculiarly  fine  sensibi- 
lities; but  the  mind  trained  to  nice  judging  in  one  set  of 
matters  can  exercise  the  same  acumen  upon  others,  so  soon 

10 


148 


THE    IRIS. 


as  its  attention  is  fairly  called  out  to  them.  Taste  is  a  thing 
of  particular  growth  and  cultivation  in  each  sejDarate  branch ; 
hut  certainly  the  mind  that  has  attained  high  excellence  in 
one  is  finely  jDrepared  to  take  lessons  in  another." 

'•  There  may  be  something  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Kicardo,  as 
if  he  thought  there  wasn't  much. 

"  But,  beyond  that,"  said  my  father,  "  the  cultivation  of 
taste  opens  truly  a  new  world  of  enjoyment  utterly  closed 
to  every  one  destitute  of  it.  Nature's  stores  of  beauty  and 
wonder,  the  fine  analogies  of  moral  truth  that  lie  hidden 
under  them,  the  new  setting  forth  of  nature  which  is  Art's 
beautiful  work, — how  numberless,  how  measureless  the 
sources  of  pleasure  to  the  mind  once  quickened  to  see  and 
taste  them !  Once  quickened,  it  will  not  cease  to  rejoice  in 
them,  and  more  and  more.  And  as  the  mind  always  assimi- 
lates itself  to  those  objects  with  which  it  is  very  conversant, 
and  as  these  sources  of  pleasure  are  all  pure,  it  follows,  that 
not  only  a  refined  but  a  purifying  influence  also  is  at  work  in 
all  this ;  and  the  result  should  be,  if  nothing  untoward  coun- 
teract, that  everything  gross,  everything  improper,  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  word,  everything  unseemly,  unlovely,  im- 
pure, becomes  disgustful,  and  more  and  more.  And  what- 
ever is  the  reverse  of  these  meets  with  a  juster  appreciation, 
a  keener  relish,  a  truer  love  than  could  be  felt  for  them  by 
a  mind  not  so  cultivated.  This  refining  and  purifying  effect 
will  be  seen  in  the  whole  character.  It  will  make  those  solid 
qualities,  which  are,  indeed,  more  worth  in  themselves,  show 
with  yet  new  lustre  and  tell  with  higher  eflfect,  and  not 
th<'  outward  attire  only,  but  the  very  inward  graces  of  the 
mind  will  be  worn  with  a  more  perfect  adjustment." 


A    FINE    ART    DISREGARDED. 


149 


"  Hum— well,"  said  Mr.  Ricardo,  about  a  minute  after 
my  father  had  done  speaking,  "you  have  made  a  pretty  fair 
case  of  it." 

My  father  smiled,  and  we  all  three  paced  up  and  down 
the  walk  in  silence.    I  thought  we  had  done  with  the  subject. 

"  That's  a  beautiful  sky !"  said  Mr.  Ricardo,  coming  to  a 
stand,  with  his  face  to  the  west. 

"  Look  down  yonder,"  said  my  father. 

In  the  southwestern  quarter  lay  a  beautiful  fleecy  mass 
of  cloud :  the  under  edges  touched  with  exquisite  rose-colour, 
sailing  slowly  down  the  sky — pushed  by  that  same  faint 
north  wind.  Just  over  it— just  over  it,  sat  a  little  star, 
shining  at  us  with  its  unchanging  ray. 

"  Would  your  Tennessee  friends  see  enough  there  to  hold 
their  thoughts  for  half  a  minute  ?"  said  I,  when  we  had 
looked  as  long ;  but  Mr.  Ricardo  did  not  answer  me. 

"  That  painted  cloud,"  said  my  father,  "  is  like  the  plea- 
sures of  earth — catching  the  eye  with  fair  hues ;  the  star, 
like  the  better  pleasures,  that  have  their  source  above  the 
earth.  That  light  fills,  indeed,  it  may  be,  a  much  smaller 
space  in  our  eye,  or  our  fancy,  than  the  colours  on  the  cloud ; 
biit  mark, — it  is  pure,  bright,  and  undying,  while  the  other 
is  a  vapour,  that  appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  va- 
nisheth  away." 

I  looked  at  the  star,  and  I  looked  at  my  father,  and  my 
heart  was  full.  I  thought  Mr.  Ricardo  had  got  enough,  and 
I  think  he  thought  so  too,  for  when  we  reached  the  far  end 
of  the  walk,  he  left  us,  with  a  very  hearty  shake  of  the 
hand,  indeed. 


150 


THE    IRIS. 


My  father  and  I  walked  then,  without  talking  any  more, 
till  glow  after  glow  passed  away  and  night  had  set  in.  The 
little  cloud  had  lost  all  its  fair  colours,  and  had  drifted  far 
down  into  the  southern  sky,  a  soft  rack  of  gray  vapour,  and 
the  star  was  shining  steadily  and  brightly  as  ever  in  the 
deepening  blue. 


1 1 


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-•I 


THE  MISSION  CHURCH  OF  SAN  JOSE/ 


BY  MRS.    K\nv  EASTMAN. 

Not  far  from  San  Antonio, 

Stands  the  Church  of  San  Jos^ ; 
Brightly  its  walls  are  gilded 

With  the  sun's  departing  ray. 
The  long  grass  twines  the  arches  through, 

And,  stirred  by  evening  air, 
Wave  gracefully  the  vine's  dark  leaves. 

And  bends  the  prickly  pear. 

High,  from  its  broken,  mouldering  top, 

The  holy  cross  looks  down. 
While  round  the  open  portals  stand 

Figures  of  saints  in  stone. 

*  San  Jos6  is  the  most  interesting  of  the  ruins  of  the  mission  chapels  in 
Texas.  There  arc  five  of  them, — the  chapel  of  the  Alamo,  at  San  Antonio; 
Chapel  of  Conception,  two  miles  from  San  Antonio;  Chapel  of  San  Jose, 
five  miles  from  San  Antonio;  Chapel  of  San  Juan,  ten  miles  from  the  same 
place;  and  one  other  near  Goliad.  These  chapels  were  built  by  the  Jesuits, 
at  the  time  when  they  contemplated  Christianizing  the  Indians  of  Mexico. 
The  Indians  were  obliged  to  assist  in  the  labour.  The  chapels  are  all  in  a 
state  of  ruin.  On  the  top  of  San  Jose,  near  the  large  cross  at  its  foot,  a 
peach  tree  grows.  Occasionally  there  is  some  sort  of  service  performed  ir 
them.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  carving  about  them,  and  remains  of  former 
splendour;  but  they  have  become  refuges  for  the  bats  and  owls,  which  are 
for  ever  flying  in  and  about  them. 


152 


THE    IRIS. 


And  round  its  ancient  spires, 

In  the  turrets  wide  and  high, 
While  you  watch  the  night-birds  flap  their  wings, 

You  hear  their  piercing  cry. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  bats. 

In  clusters,  seek  their  homes. 
As  night,  with  shrouding  mantle. 

On  the  Mission  Chapel  comes. 
Oh !  'twas  not  thus,  when  Jesuit  priostH 

Their  chaunt  at  evening  sung, 
As,  echoing  o'er  the  river's  shores, 

The  vesper  bells  were  rung. 

Now,  while  we  linger  round  its  walls, 

Its  history  would  we  learn  ? — 
How  San  Josh's  walls  and  spires  rose  up  ? — 

To  its  legends  we  must  turn. 
In  learning  high,  and  cunning  deep. 

With  wealth  and  numbers,  come — 
Christians  to  make  the  red  men  all — 

These  haughty  priests  of  Home. 

Did  they  tell  them  they  were  IjrutherM? 

That  every  human  heart 
Was  a  link  in  love's  great  chain — 

Of  salvation's  scheme  a  part? 
Not  they :  they  bade  them  hew  the  stoiu*. 

And  bear  its  heavy  weight; 
And,  while  they  used  the  Indian's  strength, 

They  gained  his  fiercest  hate. 


IMPI.WJWMIWIWPWJ 


THE    MISSION    CHURCH    OF    SAN    JOSE. 

But  towers,  and  spires,  and  steeples  rise. 

And  the  Church  of  San  Jos^ 
Arrests  the  traveller,  who  kneels, 

Then  passes  on  his  way. 
Turning  once  more,  to  bend  before 

The  Virgin  and  her  Son, 
The  Cherubim  and  Seraphim 

From  his  strained  gaze  are  gone. 

No  converts  from  the  red  men 

Made  these  haughty  priests  of  Rome ; 
But  still  on  ignorance  and  vice 

The  holy  cross  looked  down, 
Though  Jesus,  with  the  crown  of  thorns. 

The  ofiering  made  for  sin. 
And  the  vase  of  holy  water. 

Borne  by  angels,  stood  within. 

Rich  tapestries,  and  gilded  signs, 
And  images  stood  forth. 

And  the  patron  saint,  San  Jose — 
Were  all  these  nothing  Avorth? 

"  The  red  man's  heart  is  adamant," 
Thus  do  the  Jesuits  say ; 

"  Unmoved  they  see  these  splendours- 
Unchanged  they  turn  away." 

Not  under  stern  and  unjust  rule 

The  red  man's  heart  will  melt. 
But  l)y  such  gentle,  sorroAving  love, 

As  Christ  for  mortals  felt. 


153 


I  l«,"JWB»»»<l  '  n"!'m.v^i^^ifft^iif^^^^tfm»<iX  IJilfct 


154 


THE    IRIS. 


Oh !  that  the  star  might  shine  for  them, 

That  unto  us  is  given, 
To  cheer  our  dreary  path  on  earth, 

And  guide  our  steps  to  heaven. 


Let  the  ruins  of  her  glory  stand, 

A  monument  to  art ; 
But  the  temple  of  the  Living  God 

Should  be  the  human  heart; 
While  mouldering  in  tower  and  wall, 

And  bending  in  decay. 
Do  we  gaze  upon  this  chapel  fair, 

The  Church  of  San  Jos6. 


HAWKING. 


DY   EDITH  MAY. 


She  had  drawn  rein  within  the  castle  court 
Under  its  arching  gateway,  and  there  stood, 
Curbing  the  hot  steed  that,  with  upreared  hooft. 
Bearing  upon  the  giUled  bit,  pressed  forward. 
Her  eyes  had  measured  distance,  and  her  lips. 
Parted  and  eager,  seemed  to  drink  the  air 
Now  fresh  with  morning,  and  her  light  form  kept 
Its  throne  exultingly.     A  single  plume 
Waved  from  her  hunting-cap,  and  the  quick  wind 
Close  to  the  floating  ringlets  of  her  hair 
Pressed  down  its  snowy  fringes.     But  the  folds 
Of  her  rich  dress  hung  motionless,  and  its  hem 
Swept  to  the  shaven  turf.     Near  by,  a  page 
Held  in  a  leash  of  greyhounds,  and  a  hawk 
Sat  hooded  on  the  bend  of  her  gloved  wrist. 


HILLSIDE  COTTAGE. 


BY  MBS.  JULIA  C.  B.  DOBB. 


There  was  no  spot  in  all  Elmwood  that  we  children  so 
dearly  loved  to  visit  as  Hillside  Cottage.  No  matter  where 
our  Avanderings  began — whether  we  started  for  the  meadow, 
in  pursuit  of  the  rich  strawberry — for  the  thick  woods, 
where  the  wild  flowers  bloomed  so  luxuriantly,  and  the 
bright  scarlet  clusters  of  the  partridge-berry,  contrasting 
beautifully  with  its  dark  green  leaves,  sprang  up  at  our  feet 
— for  the  brook,  to  gather  the  shining  pebbles,  or  to  watch 
the  speckled  trout,  as  they  darted  swiftly  through  the  water 
— no  matter  where  our  wanderings  ]jegan,  it  was  a  strange 
thing  if  they  did  not  terminate  somewhere  about  the  sweet 
wild  place  where  Aunt  Mary  lived. 

Now,  prythee,  gentle  reader,  do  not  picture  to  your 
''  mind's  eye"  a  stately  mansion  with  an  unpretending  name, 
when  you  read  of  Hillside  Cottiige.  Neither  was  it  a  cot- 
tage or)iee,  with  piazzas,  and  columns,  and  Venetian  blinds. 
[t  was  a  low-roofed  dwelling,  and  its  walls  had  never  been 
visited  by  a  single  touch  of  the  painter's  brush :  but  the 
wild  vines  had  sprung  up  around  it,  until  their  interlacing 
tendrils  formed  a  beautiful  network  nearly  all  over  the 
little  building;  and  the  moss  upon  the  roof  had  been  gather- 
iug  there  for  many  years,  growing  thicker  and  greener  after 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


157 


the  snows  of  each  succeeding  winter  had  rested  upon  it.  It 
stood,  as  the  name  given  it  by  the  villagers  indicated,  upon 
the  hillside,  just  in  the  edge  of  the  woods  that  nearly 
covered  the  rounded  summit  of  the  hill;  a  little  rivulet 
danced  along,  almost  beneath  the  very  windows,  and  at  a 
short  distance  below  fell  over  a  ledge  of  rocks,  forming  a  small 
but  beautiful  cascade,  then,  tired  of  its  gambols,  it  flowed 
onwards  as  demurely  as  if  it  had  never  leaped  gaily  in  the 
sunlight,  or  frolicked,  like  a  child  at  play,  with  every  flower 
that  bent  to  kiss  its  bright  waters.  We  thought  there  was 
no  place  where  the  birds  sang  half  so  sweetly,  or  where  the 
air  was  so  laden  with  fragrance ;  and  sure  am  I  there  was 
no  place  where  we  were  more  cordially  welcomed  than  in 
Aunt  Mary's  cottage. 

I  well  remember  Aunt  Mary's  first  arrival  in  Elmwood. 
For  two  or  three  weeks  it  had  been  rumoured  that  the  cottage 
on  the  hill  was  to  receive  a  new  tenant.  Some  slight  repairs 
were  going  on,  and  some  one  had  seen  a  wagon,  loaded  with 
furniture,  unladen  at  the  door.  This  was  enough  to  excite 
village  curiosity;  and  when  we  assembled  in  the  church, 
the  next  Sabbath,  I  fear  that  more  than  one  eye  wandered 
from  the  pulpit  to  the  door,  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  our 
new  neighbour.  Just  as  our  old  pastor  was  commencing 
the  morning  service,  a  lady,  entirely  unattended,  came 
slowly  up  the  aisle,  and  entered  the  pew  designated  by  the 
sexton.  Her  tall  and  graceful  figure  was  robed  in  deepest 
black,  and  it  was  evident  that  grief,  rather  than  years,  had 
dimmed  the  brightness  of  her  e^e,  and  driven  the  rich 
colouring  of  youth  and  health  from  her  cheek.  But  there 
was  something  in  the  (juiet,  subdued  glance  of  those  large. 


tmm 


158 


THE    IRIS. 


thoughtful  eyes,  in  the  intellect  that  seemed  throned  upon 
her  lofty  forehead,  and  in  the  sweet  and  tender  expression 
that  played  around  her  small  and  delicately  formed  mouth, 
that  more  than  compensated  for  the  absence  of  youthful 
bloom  and  freshness.  I  did  not  think  of  these  things  then ; 
but,  child  that  I  was,  after  one  glance  I  shrank  back  in  my 
seat,  awe-struck  and  abashed  by  the  dignity  of  her  bearing. 
Yet  when  she  rose  from  her  knees,  and  I  caught  another 
glimpse  of  her  pale  face,  my  little  heart  seemed  drawn 
towards  her  by  some  powerful  spell ;  and  after  service  was 
conc\ided,  as  we  passed  down  the  aisle  side  by  side,  I 
timicJy  placed  in  her  hand  a  wild  rose  I  had  gathered  on 
my  way  to  chuich.  She  took  it  with  a  smile,  and  in  a 
sweet  low  voice  thanked  ine  for  the  simple  gift.  Our  homes 
lay  in  the  same  direction,  and  ere  we  reached  my  father's 
gate  I  imagined  myself  well  acquainted  with  Miss  Atherton. 

From  that  hour  my  visits  to  Hillside  Cottage  were  neither 
••  few"  nor  "  far  between."  My  parents  laughed  at  my  en- 
thusiastic praises  of  my  new  friend ;  but  they  soon  became 
assured  that  they  were  well  grounded :  and  it  was  not  long 
before  the  answer,  "  Oh,  she  has  only  gone  to  see  Aunt 
Mary, '  was  the  most  satisfactory  one  that  could  be  given 
to  the  oft-repeated  query,  '•  Where  in  the  world  has  Jessie 
aone  now  ?" 

She  lived  almost  the  life  of  a  recluse ;  seldom  mingling 
with  the  villagers,  save  in  the  services  of  the  sanctuary,  or 
when,  like  a  ministering  angel,  she  hovered  around  the 
couch  of  the  dying.  Formed  to  be  an  ornament  to  any 
circle,  and  to  attract  admiration  and  attention  wherever  she 
moved,  she  yet  shrank  from  public  notice,  and  was  rarely 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


159 


seen,  except  by  those  who  sought  her  society  in  her  own 
little  cottage.  To  those  few  it  was  evident  that  her  love  of 
seclusion  was  rather  the  effect  of  some  deep  grief,  that  had 
in  early  life  cast  its  shadow  over  her  pathway,  than  the 
constitutional  tendency  of  her  mind.  Hers  was  a  character 
singularly  lovely  and  symmetrical.  With  a  mind  strong, 
clear,  and  discriminating,  she  yet  possessed  all  those  finer 
shades  of  fancy  and  feeling,  all  that  confiding  tenderness, 
all  those  womanly  sympathies,  and  all  that  delicacy  and 
refinement  of  thought  and  manner  which,  in  the  opinion  of 
many,  can  rarely  be  found  in  teaman,  combined  with  a  high 
degree  of  talent.  Love  of  the  beautiful  and  sublime  was 
with  her  almost  a  passion,  and  conversing  with  her,  when 
animated  by  her  favourite  theme,  was  like  reading  a  page 
of  rare  poetry,  or  gazing  upon  a  series  of  paintings,  the  work 
of  a  well-skilled  hand. 

Years  passed  on.  The  little  village  of  Elmwood  had 
increased  in  size,  if  not  in  comeliness :  the  old  church  had 
given  place  to  one  of  statelier  mien  and  prouder  vestments, 
and  the  winding  lane,  with  its  primroses  and  violets,  had 
become  a  busy  street,  with  tall  rows  of  brick  bordering  it  on 
either  side.  But  still  the  cottage  on  the  hill  remained  quiet 
and  peaceful  as  ever,  undisturbed  by  the  changes  that  were 
at  work  beneath  it.  A  silver  thread  might  now  and  then 
be  traced  amid  the  abundant  raven  tresses  that  were  parted 
on  Aunt  Mary's  forehead ;  and  my  childish  curls  had  grown 
darker,  and  Avere  arranged  with  more  precision  than  of  yore. 
Yet  still  the  friendship  of  earlier  years  remained  unbroken, 
and  a  week  seldom  passed  without  finding  me  at  Hillside 
Cottage.     My  visits  had  of  late  been  more  frequent  than 


160 


THE    IRIS. 


ever,  for  the  time  was  drawing  near  when  our  intiniac} 
must  be  interrupted.  I  was  soon  to  leave  my  lather's  roof, 
for  a  new  home  in  a  far-off  clime,  and  to  exchange  the  love 
and  tenderness  that  had  ever  been  lavished  upon  me  there 
for  a  nearer  and  more  engrossing  attachment. 

It  was  the  evening  before  my  bridal.  I  had  stolen  awa}' 
unperceived,  for  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  one 
more  quiet  chat  with  Aunt  Mary. 

"  I  scarcely  expected  you  to-night,  my  dear  Jessie,"  said 
she,  as  I  entered,  "  but  you  are  none  the  less  welcome.  Do 
you  know  I  am  very  selfish  to-night  ?  When  I  ought  to  be 
rejoicing  in  your  happiness,  my  heart  is  heavy,  because  I 
feel  that  I  can  no  longer  be  to  you  what  I  have  been,  chief 
friend  and  confidant.  Oh !  I  shall  indeed  miss  my  little 
Jessie." 

"  You  will  always  be  to  me  just  what  you  have  been, 
Aunt  Mary,"  I  replied,  and  tears  filled  my  eyes,  as  I  threw 
myself  upon  a  low  seat  at  her  feet.  "You  must  not  think 
that  l)ecause  I  am  a  wife,  I  shall  love  my  old  friends  any 
the  less :  and  you  of  all  others,  you  who  have  been  to  me 
as  a  dear,  dear  elder  sister, — you  who  have  instructed  and 
counselled  me,  and  have  shared  all  my  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings since  I  was  a  little  child ;  oh !  do  you  think  any  one 
can  come  between  our  hearts  ?  We  may  not  meet  as  fre- 
quently as  we  have  done,  but  you  will  ever  find  me  just  the 
same,  and  I  shall  tell  you  all  my  thoughts,  and  all  my 
cares  and  sorrows,  and  all  mv  iovs  too,  iust  as  I 


my  joys 


always 


have  done. 


"  No,  no,  Jessie,  say  not  so.     That  may  not  be.     You 
may  love  me  just  as  well,  but  you  will  love  another  more. 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


161 


Your  heart  cannot  be  open  to  me  as  it  has  been,  for  it  will 
belong  to  another.  Its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  joys,  its  sorroAvs, 
its  cares,  its  love,  will  all  be  so  intimately  blended  with 
those  of  another,  that  they  cannot  ]je  separated.  No  wife, 
provided  the  relations  existing  between  her  husband  and 
herself  are  what  they  should  be,  can  be  to  any  other  friend 
exactly  what  she  was  before  her  marriage." 

"Why,  Aunt  Mary! — you  surely  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  a  wife  should  never  have  any  confidential  friends  ?" 

"  The  history  of  woman,  dear  Jessie,  is  generally  simply 
a  record  of  the  workings  of  her  own  heart;  in  ordinary 
cases,  she  has  little  else  to  consider.  ^  The  world  of  the 
affections  is  her  world,'  and  there  finds  she  her  appropriate 
sphere  of  action.  What  I  mean  to  say  is, — not  that  a  wife 
should  have  no  friend  save  her  husband, — but  that,  if  the 
hearts  of  the  twain  are  as  closelj^  linked  together  as  they 
should  be,  if  they  always  beat  in  perfect  unison,  and  if 
their  thoughts  and  feelings  harmonize  as  they  ought  to  do. 
it  will  be  difficult  for  her  to  draw  aside  the  veil  from  her 
own  heart,  and  lay  it  open  to  the  gaze  of  any  other  being, 
without,  in  some  degree,  betraying  the  confidence  reposed 
in  her  by  him  who  should  be  nearer  and  dearer  than  all 
the  world  beside.  The  heart  is  like  a  temple,  Jessie.  It  has 
its  outer  and  its  inner  court,  and  it  has  also  its  holy  of  ho- 
lies. The  outer  court  is  full :  common  acquaintances, — those 
that  we  call  friends,  merely  because  they  are  not  enemies, — 
are  gathered  there.  The  inner  court  but  few  may  enter, — 
the  few  who  we  feel  love  us,  and  to  whom  we  are  united 
by  the  strong  bonds  of  sympathy ;  but  the  sanctum  sancto- 
rum, the  holy  of  holies,  that  must  never  be  profaned  by 


162 


THE    IRIS. 


alien  footsteps,  or  by  the  tread  of  any,  save  him  to  whom 
tlie  wile  liath  said,  'Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  thy 
peojjle  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God.'" 

The  de(;[)ening  twilight  hung  over  us,  wrapping  all 
things  in  its  sombre  mautle,  ainl  its  solemn  stillness  fell 
with  soft,  subduing  power  upon  our  hearts,  as  we  sat,  for 
many  moments,  each  lost  in  reverie,  ere  I  spoke  again. 

"  Aunt  Mary,  why  were  you  never  married  ?" 

"  Rather  an  abrupt  question  that,  my  love.  What  if  I 
say,  in  the  words  of  the  old  song,  because  'nobody  ever 
came  wooing  me  ?' " 

"  Nay,  nay,  Aunt  Mary,  I  know  you  have  never  passed 
through  life  unloved,  and  I  have  sometimes  fimcied  not 
unloving  either.  But  pardon  me,  I  fear  my  obtrusive 
curiosity  has  given  you  pain,"  I  added  quickly,  as  in  the 
dim  light  I  saw  that  her  pale  cheek  was  growing  still  paler, 
and  that  deep,  though  subdued,  anguish  was  stamped  in 
legiblt!  characters  upon  her  brow. 

"  1  have  nought  to  pardon,  my  child,  for  our  long  fami- 
liarity has  given  you  a  right  to  ask  the  question ;  and  1 
wonder  that  you  have  never  made  the  in(iuiry  before, 
rather  than  that  you  make  it  now.  The  history  of  my 
early  lifc^  is  a  sad  one,  but  you  shall  hear  it,  and  know 
why  1  am  now  such  a  lone  and  isolated  being. 

"  Upon  the  early  part  of  my  life  it  will  be  necessary  for 
me  to  dw(.'ll  but  slightly.  My  childhood  passed  dreamily 
away,  marked  by  no  event  of  sufficient  importance  to  leave 
a  ver^'  deep  impression  upon  my  mind.  An  only  child,  I 
was  my  father's  idol,  and  he  loved  me  none  the  less  ten- 
derly, because  the  destroying  angel  had  snatched  his  young 


I 


r 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


163 


wife  from  his  bosom,  and  I  was  all  that  was  left  to  him  of 
her.  I  was  very  youii<5  when  my  mother  died — too  young 
to  appreciate  the  magnitude  of  my  loss,  or  to  feel  that  I 
was  motherless.  Yet  I  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  a 
sweet,  'iirlish  face,  that  used  to  bend  over  my  couch,  and  of 
u  melodious  voice  that  was  wont  to  lull  me  to  my  baby  slum- 
bers. The  remembrance  is  a  very  faint  one,  but  I  have 
never  thought  of  angels  in  my  dreams,  oi-  in  my  waking 
hours,  when  the  vision  did  not  wear  the  semblance  of  my 
mother  s  face,  nor  of  angel  voices  without  in  fancy  hearing 
again  my  mother's  low,  soft  tones. 

"As  I  grew  older,  the  best  instructors  in  the  country  were 
procured  for  me,  and  I  was  taught  all  the  accomplishments 
of  the  day,  while,  at  the  same  time,  I  was  not  allowed  to 
neglect  any  of  the  plainer,  but  equally  important  branches 
of  female  education.  At  last  my  education  was  completed, 
and  'I  came  out'  under  auspices  as  tlatioring  as  those 
under  which  any  young  girl  ever  made  her  debut  upon  the 
stage  of  life.  The  harsh  fingers  of  Time  have  wrought  Mich 
changes  upon  my  face  and  form,  that  you  may  find  it  dilH- 
cult  to  believe  that  in  my  youth  I  was  called  beautiful. 
Yet  so  it  was,  and  this,  together  with  my  father's  station  in 
society  and  reputation  for  wealth,  drew  a  crowd  of  admirers 
around  me.  One  of  my  father's  chief  sources  of  delight^ 
was  the  exercise  of  an  almost  prodigal  hospitality,  and  he 
dearly  loved  to  see  me,  attired  with  all  the  elegance  that 
his  ample  means  could  afford,  presiding  at  his  table,  or 
moving  among  our  guests,  in  his  fond  eyes  '  the  star  of  the 
goodly  companie.' 

"  It  was  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying  sister,  that  I  first  met 

11 


164 


THE    IRIS. 


Walter  Elmore.  Effie  had  been  a  schoolmate  of  mine,  and 
an  intimate  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  us.  Sister- 
less  as  I  was,  I  had  learned  to  cherish  for  her  almost  a 
sister's  love.  Soon  after  we  left  school,  her  father  removed 
his  residence  from  a  distant  part  of  the  country  to  the  city 
near  which  mine  resided,  and  our  girlish  attachment  was 
cemented  and  strengthened,  as  we  entered,  hand  in  hand, 
upon  the  duties  and  pleasures  of  early  womanhood. 

"  Effie's  constitution  was  naturally  weak,  and  she  had  been 
subject  from  her  childhood  to  a  slight  cough;  but  her 
friends  gave  little  heed  to  it,  as  the  buoyancy  of  her  spirits 
and  her  unchanged  demeanour  seemed  to  preclude  the  idea 
of  any  seated  complaint.  But  the  destroyer  came,  and  dis- 
ease had  made  fearful  havoc  before  we  awoke  to  a  sense  of 
her  danger.  I  was  with  her  day  and  night  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  then  Effie  Elmore,  in  her  youth  and  loveliness,  slept 
the  '  sleep  that  knows  no  waking.' 

"  Her  brother,  of  whom  I  had  often  heard  her  speak  in 
terms  of  enthusiastic  fondness,  had  been  abroad,  completing 
his  studies,  and  I  never  met  him  until  we  stood,  side  by 
side,  gazing  upon  the  calm,  still  face  of  the  beautiful  being 
whom  we  both  so  tenderly  loved. 

"  It  is  needless  for  me  to  say  that  from  that  hour  we  met 
often.  At  my  father's  house  he  became  a  frequent  and 
a  welcome  guest ;  and  we  met  too,  at  no  distant  intervals, 
by  Effie's  grave,  in  her  favourite  walks,  and  in  every  nook 
that  had  been  made  sacred  by  her  presence.  We  thought 
that  it  was  our  mutual  love  for  the  departed  that  drew  us 
together ;  we  thought  it  was  her  memory,  and  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  hour  when  first  we  met,  that  made  us  seek  each 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


105 


other's  society,  and  that  rendered  the  moments  we  spent 
together  so  dear  tons  both;  but  ah  me!  but  lew  months 
had  rolled  over  our  heads  before  we  found  that  it  was  even 
a  stronger  tie ;  that  it  was  the  mystic  chain  that  binds  heart 
to  heart,  the  deep  love  of  congenial  spirits. 

"  And  Walter  Elmore  was  indeed  one  that  any  maiden 
might  be  proud  of  loving.  His  face  and  figure  were  cast  in 
nature's  finest  mould.  But  that  were  nothing — it  is  of  the 
nobleness  of  his  character  of  which  I  would  speak.  Proud 
and  high-spirited  even  to  a  fault,  he  could  not  stoop  to  a 
mean  or  unworthy  action.  Generous  and  confiding,  his 
soul  was  filled  with  all  true  and  noble  impulses,  and  his 
heart  was  the  home  of  pure  and  elevated  affections.  His 
intellectual  powers  were  such  as  to  win  the  admiration  and 
esteem  of  all  who  knew  him,  and  he  possessed  also  the  rare 
gift  of  eloquence, — a  gift  that  seldom  fails  to  find  its  way  to 
a  woman's  heart.  What  wonder  was  it  then  that  I  yielded 
mine  to  him  wholly  and  unreservedly,  and  soon  learned  to 
listen  for  his  footstep,  as  I  listened  for  no  other  ?  My  father 
snuled  upon  his  suit,  and  gave  it  his  unqualified  approba- 
tion.  Elmore  was  not  wealthy,  but  his  family  w^as  one  of 
the  first  in  the  country,  and  my  father  was  proud  of  his 
brilliant  talents  and  untarnished  name.  I  had  wealth 
enough  for  both,  and  it  was  decided  that  upon  my  twen- 
tieth birthday  our  nuptials  should  be  celebrated. 

"  Alas !  how  little  know  we  of  the  future !  Ere  that  day 
came,  I  was  penniless — I  had  almost  said  a  penniless 
orphan.  My  father's  capital  was  all  invested  in  the  busi- 
ness transactions  of  two  of  the  oldest,  and,  it  was  supposed, 
the  wealthiest  houses  in  New  York.    Two  successive  weeks 


166 


THE    IRIS. 


brought  news  of  the  failure  of  both  firniH,  tuul  \u>  ihmul  him- 
self, when  far  advanced  in  life,  stripped  of  ilie  fortune  he 
had  acquired  by  his  own  hard  exertionH  in  earlic'r  years, 
and  utterly  destitute.  He  sank  benoatli  the  blow,  and  for 
weeks  I  hung  over  his  couch,  fearing  e^icU  night  that  the 
next  rising  sun  would  °«e  me  an  orphan. 

"  He  rose  at  length  from  that  bed  of  Hun'uring,  but  oh,  how 
changed !  His  hair,  which  had  before  but  lightly  felt  the 
touch  of  time,  was  white  as  snow;  bin  once  i'rc('t  fonn  was 
bent  and  trembling;  his  eye  had  lost  its  luHtn',  and  what 
was  far  more  sad  than  all,  his  mental  vigour  had  departed, 
and  he  was  as  imbecile  and  feeble  as  a  littic'  (thild.  Accus- 
tomed as  I  had  ever  been  to  lean  upon  hin  Mtrotig  arm  for 
support,  to  look  to  him  for  guidance  and  direction  in  all 
things,  I  was  now  obliged  to  summon  all  my  fortitude,  and 
be  to  him  in  turn  protector  and  guardian. 

"  The  whole  of  our  property  was  gone,  our  ruin  was  com- 
plete, and  for  a  time  I  was  overwhelmed  by  the  ncjw  and 
strange  cares  that  were  pressing  so  heavily  upon  Trie.  But 
I  soon  found  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  o/f,  rather  than 
mourn,  and  I  began  to  look  around  me  for  Home  means  by 
which  to  obtain  a  comfortable  livelihood  for  my  poor  father. 
I  might  have  obtained  a  situation  as  gov<!rn<!MM,  where  the 
labour  would  be  light,  and  the  salary  more  than  MufTIcient 
for  my  wants ;  but  in  that  case  I  nmst  be  neparated  from 
my  parent,  and  leave  him  to  the  tender  merci<»M  of  strangers. 
The  same  objection  arose  in  my  mind  in  eonn<!xion  with 
almost  every  course  that  presented  itntflf,  and  I  finally  con- 
cluded upon  renting  a  small  house  in  a  pleanant  little  village 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


167 


not  far  from  the  city,  where  I  co  ild  obtain  a  few  pupils, 
and  still  be  able  to  wateh  over  my  feeble  charge. 

"  It  Avas  in  the  ^  merry^  merry  month  of  May,'  that  the 
news'  of  our  reverses  came,  but  it  was  late  in  October  before 
we  left  our  home,  that  home  rendered  sacred  by  so  many 
hallowed  associations.  The  intervening  months  had  been 
spent  by  me  in  watching  over  the  sick  couch  of  my  aged 
parent,  in  striving  to  conij.<.'-e  my  own  agitated  spirits,  and 
to  gain  sufficient  courage  to  gaze  unshrinkingly  upon  the 
new  and  strange  pathway  I  was  about  to  tread. 

"  Slowly  and  wearily  passed  they  away,  and  the  day  at 
length  dawned  that  was  to  witness  our  departure.  All 
was  bright  and  joyous  in  the  outer  world.  The  air  was 
soft  and  jjalniy  as  a  morning  in  June.  The  trees  were  just 
changing  their  green  summer  robes  for  the  gorgeous  attire 
of  autumn,  Avith  its  rich  colouring  and  brilliant  dyes ;  and 
the  sky  was  as  cloudless  as  if  the  storm-king  had  been 
dethroned,  and  his  banners  furled  for  ever.  Tlie  house,  and 
everything  around  it,  presented  much  the  same  appearance 
as  in  liMp])ier  days ;  for  the  gentleman  who  had  purchased 
it  hod  ))ou^ht  the  furniture  also,  with  the  exception  of  a 
fe  V  indispensable  articles,  that  the  kindness  of  the  credi- 
tors allowed  us  to  retain  for  our  new  dwelling. 

"But  oh,  the  darkness  of  the  inner  world  !  the  gloom  in 
which  my  own  soul  was  wrapped,  when  1  awoke  from  a 
short  and  troubled  sleep,  and  the  thought  fell  as  a  dull, 
sickening  weight  upon  my  heart,  that  I  had  slept  for  the 
last  time  in  that  (piiet  chamber !  I  passed  from  room  to 
room,  and  every  step  Init  added  to  my  grief  Here  wa«< 
the  nursery  and  the  little  ciib,  where  I  could  just  remember 


•  vftnnr. w  wmi  »i" 


168 


THE    IRIS. 


sleeping  in  my  very  babyhood ;  here  the  retired  study,  with 
its  perfect  stillness,  and  the  light  coming  in  so  stealthily 
through  the  stained  glass  j  here  the  library,  my  father's 
favourite  apartment,  and  there,  in  the  recess  with  its  bay 
window,  the  arm-chair  that  had  ever  been  his  chosen  rest- 
ing-place ;  and  here  the  room  where  my  mother  had  lain,  in 
her  quiet  beauty,  ere  the  coffin-lid  was  closed,  and  she  was 
borne  hence  for  ever. 

"  In  a  distant  part  of  the  grounds,  where  the  forest-trees 
had  not  yet  fallen,  and  where  the  hand  of  art  had  done 
little  more  than  to  clear  away  the  tangled  underbrush, 
there  was  a  small  plot  enclosed  by  a  stone  wall,  over  which 
wild  vines  and  running  mosses  had  been  trained  until  the 
gray  stones  were  almost  entirely  hidden.  The  grass  in  the 
enclosure  was  of  the  deepest  green,  and  shaded  though  it 
was  by  the  overhanging  trees,  there  had  not  a  faded  leaf  or 
a  withered  branch  been  suffered  to  rest  upon  it.  In  the 
centre  was  a  mound  of  earth,  and  over  it  a  slab  of  white 
marble,  upon  which  lay  the  sculptured  image  of  a  woman, 
young  and  of  surpassing  loveliness.  She  lay  as  if  in  sleep, 
one  rounded  arm  thrown  over  her  head,  and  the  other 
tlropping  by  her  side ;  while  from  the  half-opened  hand  a 
white  rose-bud  had  seemingly  just  fallen.  It  was  my 
mother's  burial-place,  and  I  bent  my  steps  thitherward 
that  I  might  cast  one  farewell  look  upon  it,  before  it  passed 
into  the  possession  of  strangers.  A  tide  of  softening  recol- 
lections swept  over  me  as  I  stood  l)y  the  grave,  and  falling 
upon  my  knees,  I  poured  out  my  full  heart  in  prayer. 

"  '  Oh,  when  the  heart  in  mid — when  bitter  thoughts 
Are  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE.  169 

And  the  poor,  coiniiioti  wordH  of  courtesy 

Are  such  a  bitter  mocking — how  much 

The  bursting  licart  may  pour  itHclf  in  prayer  !' 

I  rose  from  my  knees  calmer  thai?  I  had  been  for  many 
weeks.  I  was  sad,  but  not  despairing, — and  felt  again, 
what  in  my  despondency  I  had  well-nigh  forgotten,  that  I 
was  in  the  hands  of  One  who  careth  for  His  children. 

"  When  I  returned  to  the  house,  1  found  the  vehicle  that 
was  to  convey  us  away  waiting  at  the  door.  My  father 
was  already  mi  his  seat,  and  I  wprang  quickly  in,  not  trust- 
ing myself  to  cast  another  look  aroimd  me.  He — thanks  to 
his  weakness  and  imbecility — had  partaken  little  of  my 
dread  or  agony.  Provided  his  daily  wants  were  supplied, 
it  mattered  little  to  him  where  his  lot  was  cast." 

"But,  Aunt  Mary,  where  was  Walter  Elmore  all  this 
time?" 

"  I  should  have  told  you,  my  love,  that  business  of  vital 
importance  called  him  to  a  distant  [)art  of  the  country  a 
short  time  previous  to  our  misfortunes,  and  there  detained 
him.  lie  was  kept  a[)prised  by  my  letters,  liowever,  of  all 
that  had  Ijefallen  us,  and  hasti-ued  to  my  side  as  soon  as 
he  returned.  He  vehemently  opposed  my  pursuance  of 
the  course  I  had  nmrkcd  out  lor  myself,  and  with  all  the 
eloquence  and  earnestness  ol'  love,  besought  me  to  become 
his  wife  at  once,  and  give  him  a  right  to  protect  and 
guard  me. 

"  But  fervently  as  he  j>rayi'd,  and  strongly  as  my  own 
heart  seconded  his  ctilreati^'s,  I  could  not  yield.  I  had 
thought  that  it  was  to  ))e  my  bU-ssed  privilege  to  aid  and 
assist  him  I  loved ;  to  place  him  where  it  would  no  longer 


I 


170 


THE    IRIS. 


be  necessary  for  him  to  confine  his  noble  mind  to  close  and 
ceaseless  drudgery,  and  constant  toil  for  his  daily  bread. 
And  how  could  I  now  consent  to  be  a  drawback  upon  his 
efforts,  and  to  burden  him  with  the  care  of  my  helpless 
parent  ? 

" '  No,  no,  Walter,'  said  I,  in  reply  to  his  oft-repeated 
solicitations;  'urge  me  no  longer.  For  the  present  our 
paths  must  be  separated.  Your  task  will  be  hard  enough, 
while  you  are  taking  the  first  steps  towards  acquiring  a 
name  and  a  competence,  even  if  you  have  no  interests  but 
your  own  to  regard.  Were  I  alone  in  the  world,  I  would 
joyfully  link  my  fate  with  yours,  and  we  would  toil  to- 
gether, side  by  side.  But  as  it  is,  it  may  not  be.  My 
father  cannot  understand  why  he  need  be  deprived  of  any 
of  his  accustomed  luxuries.  Be  it  my  care  that  he  misses 
them  not.  I  will  labour  for  his  sustenance  and  my  own, 
until  you  are  so  circumstanced  that,  without  detriment  to 
your  own  prospects,  you  can  relieve  me  of  the  charge. 
Then  come  to  me,  and  the  hand  pledged  to  you  in  l)rigliter 
days  shall  be  yours !' 

"  A  }ear  passed  not  unhappily  away  in  the  earnest  and 
faithful  discharge  of  the  now  duties  devolving  upon  me. 
My  school  flourished  beyond  my  expectations.  I  had 
gained  the  esteem  and  confidence  of  those  around  me,  and 
I  found  no  difficulty  in  supplying  our  rlaily  wants.  Elmore 
was  in  an  adjacent  citj-,  in  the  oflice  of  an  eminent  lawyer, 
who.  it  was  imagined,  would  ere  long  make  him  a  partner 
in  his  business.  During  the  last  few  months  his  visits  had 
l)ecn  less  frequent  than  of  yore.  Rumour  told  strange  tales 
of  a  voung  and  exceedinglv  lieautiful  girl,  the  sister  of  his 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


171 


employer,  who  was  playing  the  mischief  with  the  hearts 

and  brains  of  half  the  young  men  in  M ,  and  more  than 

hinted  that  my  lover  was  among  the  number  of  her  ad- 
mirers. Things  went  on  thus  for  some  time.  I  fancied 
that,  when  we  met,  which  was  rarely,  his  manner  was  cold 
and  reserved,  and  that  he  seemed  to  shrink  from  my  pre- 
sence. I  now  know  that  my  own  jealous  fancies  threw  a 
false  colouring  over  all  his  actions,  and  that,  if  there  was 
any  coldness  in  his  demeanour,  it  sprang  from  the  unusual, 
and,  in  fact,  unintended  reserve  of  mine. 

"  At  last  I  heard,  from  the  lips  of  one  whose  veracity  and 
friendship  I  thought  I  could  not  question,  that  his  leisure 
hours  were  all  spent  in  the  society  of  my  supposed  rival, 
and  that,  when  rallied  by  some  of  his  associates  with  regard 
to  myself,  he  had  denied  our  engagement,  and  spoken  lightly 
and  contemptuously  of  the  '  school-mistress.' 

"  A  thousand  contending  passions  were  striving  for  the 
mastery  in  my  breast,  when,  upon  the  evening  of  that  day, 
after  its  weary  labours  were  over,  I  threw  myself  upon  a 
low  seat  in  the  room  that  served  alike  as  school-room  and 
parlour.  Woman's  pride — and  who  does  not  know  that 
'there  is  not  a  high  thing  out  of  heaven  her  pride  o'er- 
mastereth  not?' — was  all  aroused.  Memory  was  wide 
awake,  bringing  back  the  recollection  of  b}'-gone  days, 
when  my  liand  had  been  sought  l)y  the  proudest  in  the 
land.  Then  came  thoughts  of  our  earlv  love — of  the  ex- 
quisite  happiness  that  had  filled  my  heart,  when  I  had  so 
rejoiced  that  wealth  was  at  my  command,  and  tliat  I  could 
place  it  all  at  the  feet  of  one  whom  \  deemed  so  noble  and 
so  pure — and  of  a  later  period,  when,  rather  than  place  the 


;   % 


172 


THE    IRIS. 


slightest  barrier  in  his  way  to  fame  and  fortune,  I  had  re- 
sisted all  his  entreaties,  and  confined  myself  to  close  and 
unremitting  toil.  It  was  at  this  very  moment  when  I  was 
half  maddened  by  the  retrospect,  that  the  door  opened,  and 
Walter  Elmore  entered. 

"  Hastily  rising,  with  every  appearance  of  calmness,  I  re- 
ceived him  with  a  cold  and  stately  courtesy,  surprising  even 
to  myself. 

"  'What  means  this,  Mary?'  said  he;  and  I  could  see  that 
his  lip  quivered,  and  the  hand  he  had  extended  trembled. 
'  Why  do  you  greet  me  thus  coldly?' 

" '  Let  your  own  heart  answer  the  question,  Mr.  Elmore. 
To  that  and  to  your  own  words  I  refer  you  for  reasons  why 
we  must  hencefortli  be  strangers.' 

"  '  You  speak  enigmas  to-night,  my  dear  Mary.  My  heart 
tells  me  no  tale  that  can  enable  me  to  comprehend  this  un- 
looked-for change  in  30U.  It  will  take  more  than  your 
simple  assertion  that  we  are  strangers,  to  render  us  such ;' 
and  he  again  attempted  to  take  my  hand. 

'■'  I  drew  back  more  haughtily  than  before,  and  words  that 
I  cannot  now  repeat  burst  from  my  lips.  I  can  only  tell 
you  that  they  were  harsh,  stinging  words — words  fraught 
with  contempt  and  bitterness — words  that  a  proud  spirit 
like  Elmore's  could  not  brook. 

"  He  sought  no  farther  explanation.  '  Be  it  as  you  will,' 
he  said,  and  his  manner  Avas  as  stern  as  my  own ;  '  I  have 
asked  you  to  account  lor  this  change,  and  you  refuse  com- 
pliance, couching  that  refusal  in  terms  that  I  can  hear  twice 
from  no  one,  not  even  from  yourself  We  meet  no  more ; 
l)ut  remember,  Mary  Atherton,  the  words  you  have  this 


i  1 


n\ 


HILLSJDE    COTTAGE. 


173 


day  uttered  will  ring  in  your  ear  until  it  is  closed  to  all 
earthly  sounds.  You  have  given  hoed  to  some  idle  tale  of 
calumny,  and  have  wantonly  flung  away  a  heart  that  was 
filled  but  with  your  image — a  heart  that  had  centred  upon 
you  its  every  dream  and  wish  for  the  far  future — that  lived 
but  in  the  hope  of  one  day  calling  you  its  own — and  that 
looked  forward  to  that  period  as  to  the  commencement  of  a 
better  and  a  happier  existence.  The  hour  will  come  when 
you  will  feel  that  this  is  true,  and  then  will  you  bewail  the 
step  you  have  now  taken !' — and  without  one  farewell  look 
he  rushed  .Vom  the  room. 

"  This  prophecy  was  fulfilled  almost  before  the  echo  of 
his  departing  footsteps  had  died  away.  I  felt  that  I  was 
labouring  under  some  strange  delusion,  and  bursting  into 
tears,  I  wept  long  and  bitterly.  I  would  have  given  worlds 
to  recall  him ;  but  his  fleet  steed  was  bearing  him  from 
me,  as  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  Yet,  hope  whis- 
pered :  '  We  shall  surely  meet  again.  My  harsh  words 
angered  him ;  but  he  has  loved  me  so  long  and  so  fondly, 
that  he  will  not  resign  me  thus  easily.  All  will  yet  be 
explained.' 

"  But  day  after  day  passed  and  he  came  not ;  and  my 
heart  was  as  if  an  iron  hand  was  resting  upon  it,  pressing 
it  downward  to  the  very  earth.  The  excitement  of  passion 
had  died  away,  and  I  could  now  see  how  greatly  I  had 
erred,  in  not  telling  him  frankly  the  tale  that  had  reached 
my  ears,  and  thus  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  exculpate 
himself  from  the  charge.  Alas !  for  pride  and  anger,  how 
often  does  the  shadow  of  one  unguarded  moment  darken 
our  life-paths  for  ever ! 


174 


THE    IRIS. 


"Two  weeks  had  elapsed;  and  one  night,  after  vain 
attempts  to  sleep,  I  rose  from  my  couch  and  threw  open 
the  lattice.  The  glare  of  daylight  was  wanting ;  but  the 
moon  poured  forth  such  a  flood  of  radiance  that  the  mi- 
nutest object  was  distinctly  visible.  All  heaven  and  earth 
were  still ;  the  very  leaves  upon  the  trees  hung  motionless 
as  those  pointed  upon  canvass.  The  perfect  silence  was 
becoming  painfully  oppressive,  when  a  low  sound,  like  dis- 
tant footsteps,  fell  upon  my  ear.  Nearer  and  still  nearer  it 
came,  and  I  could  distinguish  a  faint  murmur,  as  of  half- 
suppressed  voices.  Then  a  group  of  men  approached. 
They  walked  slowly  and  heavily,  and  as  they  drew  near 
I  perceived  that  they  bore  a  dark  object.  Soon,  by  their 
reverential  mien,  and  by  the  unyielding,  uneven  nature  of 
their  burden,  the  stiff  outlines  of  which  were  discernible 
beneath  the  mantle  thrown  over  it,  I  knew  they  were 
bearing  the  dead. 

"  They  were  passing  directly  beneath  my  window,  when 
a  sudden  movement  of  the  bearers  disarranged  the  pall, 
and  the  moonbeams  fell  clear  and  soft  upon  the  uncovered 
features.  I  leaned  forward,  and — oh,  God !  it  was  the  face 
of  Walter  Elmore ! 

"  With  a  shriek  that  rang  out  fearfully  upon  the  night- 
air,  I  rushed  forth,  and  threw  myself  upon  the  motionless 
form.  The  men  paused  in  astonishment;  but  1  heeded 
them  not ;  I  lifted  the  wet,  dark  locks  from  his  forehead  : 
more  than  living  beauty  rested  upon  it ;  but  it  was  cold, 
icy  cold, — so  cold  that  the  touch  chilled  my  very  life-blood. 
I  placed  my  hand  upon  his  heart :  but  it  beat  no  longer. 
I  kissed  his  pale  lips  again  and  again,  and  wildly  called 


HILLSIDE    COTTAGE. 


175 


him  by  name,  and  prayed  that  he  would  speak  to  me  once, 
only  once  more ;  but  he  answered  not.  They  thought  I  was 
mad,  and  attempted  to  raise  me,  and  Ijcar  tlie  body  on ; 
but  I  clung  to  it  with  a  frenzied  clasp,  exclaiming :  ^  You 
shall  not  separate  us, — he  is  mine, — he  is  mine !'  Then, 
suddenly,  in  thunder  tones,  a  voice  from  the  depths  of  my 
own  spirit  sounded  in  my  ears :  '  He  is  not  yours :  your 
own  hand  severed  the  ties  that  bound  you.  What  dost 
thou  here  ?'  and  I  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

"  When  I  next  awoke  to  consciousness,  the  snow  had 
rested  for  many  weeks  upon  the  grave  of  Walter  Elmore. 

"  I  cannot  dwell  longer  upon  this  theme.  Years  have 
fled  since  that  name  has  passed  my  lips,  until  this  evening ; 
but  my  brain  whirls,  even  now,  when  I  recall  the  agony  of 
that  moment.  Elmore  had  been  crossing  a  narrow  bridge, 
when  his  foot  slipped,  and  he  was  precipitated  into  the 
water  beneath.  The  current  was  strong;  and  his  body 
was  found,  by  some  travellers,  washed  on  shore  some  dis- 
tance below. 

"  I  learned,  before  many  months  had  passed,  that  the  tale 
to  which  I  had  given  credence  was  an  entire  fabrication, 
having  its  origin  solely  in  jealousy  and  malice.  He  had 
never  swerved  from  his  fidelity,  even  for  one  moment ;  but 
I, — oh !  would  to  God  that  my  spirit  might  but  for  once 
hold  communion  with  his,  that  I  might  humble  myself 
before  him,  and  implore  forgiveness  for  the  injustice  and 
coldness  of  our  last  interview ! 

"  Little  more  remains  to  be  told.  Shortly  after,  my 
father  sank  to  his  rest ;  and  the  death  of  a  distant  relative 
placed  me  in  possession  of  a  small  annuity,  which  enabled 


176 


THE    IRIS. 


rnc  U)  purchase  this  cottage.  Here  I  shall  probably  live 
until  called  to  rejoin  my  loved  ones  in  a  happier  clime." 

Aunt  Mary's  story  was  ended.  My  heart  was  too  full 
for  utterance,  and  silently  I  pressed  my  lips  upon  her  pale 
forehead,  and  wended  my  way  homewards. 

The  next  morning  I  left  Elmwood.  When  I  again  re- 
visited my  early  home,  a  plain  slab  of  marble  in  the 
churchyard  bore  the  name  of  Mary  Atherton. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  RIVER  DELAWARE. 


A   SONNET,   TO    "SIBYL.' 


BY    J.    I.    PEASE. 


A  DAT  of  storms ! — But,  at  its  latest  close, 

Beyond  the  cloud,  comes  forth  the  glowing  sun, 
Kissing  the  waves  to  dimples,  one  by  one, 

O'er  which  our  homeward  bark  serenely  goes. 

The  blue  expanse  with  tremulous  lustre  glows, 
As  the  warm  hues  of  evening  fade  to  dun ; 
And  the  still  twilight  hour  comes  softly  down, 

Like  blessed  eyelids,  for  the  day's  repose. 

And  thus  our  day ! — The  heavy  clouds  rolled  past, 
The  dark  eclipse  of  doubt  and  fear  is  o'er; 
The  tides  of  life  flow  calmly  as  before, 

And  love's  pure  tranquil  moon  shines  clear  at  last. 

Oh,  may  this  hour  of  beauty  and  of  rest 

Bring  peace  undreaming  to  thy  troubled  breat^t. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


/. 


& 


1.0 


1.1 


1^  12.8 

■  50     l"^" 


2.5 
22 

2.0 

18 


L25  i  1.4   i  1.6 


^. 


% 


% 


0% 


^^ 


7 


^/ 


'>   > 


'/ 


^ 


Photograpliic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  V/eST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)872-4503 


iV 


'w  .,  .Jji5F«.iiii|BiiByMWiw 


FAITH,  HOPE,  AND  CHARITY. 


BY  8.  A.  H. 


I  SAW  a  noble  bark  upon  the  angry  main — 

The  foamy  billows  pressed  upon  her  track ; 
Now  high,  now  low,  I  saw  her  timbers  strain, 
As  forth  she  bounded  o'er  the  waters  block. 
But  ever,  as  a  deeper  plunge  she  gave, 
Phosphoric  brightness  gleamed  along  the  wave  : 
And  thus,  I  said,  wide  o'er  Life's  stormy  sea, 
Glances  the  light  of  Faith,  so  pure  and  free. 

I  marked  a  threatening  cloud  hang  o'er  the  western  sky, 
And  throw  its  blackness  o'er  the  laiidscjipe  fair, 

Whence  lightnings  flashed,  whence  pealed  the  thunder  high, 
And  wide  re-echoed  through  the  trembling  air. 

The  sun  broke  forth,  and  all  its  dark  array 

Was  gilded  with  the  hues  of  parting  day : 

And  thus,  I  said,  can  Hope's  bright  rays  illume, 

And  richly  paint  the  darkest  days  of  gloom. 


1  saw,  at  twilight  eve,  a  snowy  flower — 
It  closed  its  leaves  and  drooped  its  tender  bud ; 

Gold  came  the  dew,  and  blightingly  the  shower 
Swept  o'er  the  plant  in  swift  destructive  flood. 


\ 


^mmmmmmmm 


mmmmimmmi 


FAITH,    HOPE,    AND    CHARITY.  179 

But,  bending  o'er  its  tender  charge  its  leaves,* 
Bows  the  strong  branch,  and  needed  shelter  gives: 
And  thus,  I  said,  does  Charity  descend, 
And  proves  to  every  drooping  one  a  friend. 

*  The  tamarind  plant,  which  closes  its  leaves  over  its  young  fruit  and 
flowers. 


12 


mmmmmmmmmm 


■^" 


CASTLE-BUILDING. 


BY  JAMES  T.  MITCHELL. 


At  twilight,  when  the  deepening  shades 

Of  humid  night  are  closing  fast, 
When  o'er  bright  fields  and  green  arcades 

The  dazzling  beams  of  gold  are  cast, 
Another  day  its  weary  round 

Of  mingled  joys  and  pains  has  run. 
And  clouds,  with  golden  fringes  bound, 

In  beauty  veil  the  setting  sun, — 

A  silence,  pleasing,  calm,  profound, 

Falls  soothing  on  the  raptured  brain ; 
The  hum  of  busy  life  is  drowned, 

On  crowded  street  and  lonely  plain ; 
The  soul,  in  dreamy  reveries  lost. 

To  shadowy  realms  far  distant  roves. 
In  stormy  waves  of  ether  tost. 

Then  wandering  wild  in  heavenly  groves. 


And  cloud-built  castles,  towering  high, 
O'er  gorgeous  scenes  that  fancy  rears. 

Where  laughing  orbs  illume  the  sky. 
Seem  mansions  for  our  future  years ; 


CASTLE-BUILDING. 


181 


And,  while  the  spirit  gazing  stands, 
Enwrapt  with  pleasure  at  the  scenes 

Which  fill  Imagination's  lands 
With  palaces  for  fairy  queens, 

The  view  is  changing — all  is  gone — 

The  castles,  fading  slow  away, 
As  misty  shapes  at  early  dawn, 

Vanish  before  the  coming  day ; 
And  storm-clouds  now  are  lowering  round; 

Wild  demon  shapes  are  flitting  by; 
Fierce  flames  are  rising  from  the  ground. 

And  lurid  lightnings  cleave  the  sky. 

Bleak  snow-capped  mountains  o'er  us  frown, 

While,  gray  and  grim,  through  darkened  air, 
Towers  and  turrets,  looking  down 

From  rocky  heights  o'erhanging  there, 
Seem  prisons  for  the  wandering  brain. 

Within  whose  deep  and  caverned  walls 
'Tis  doomed  for  ever  to  remain, 

'Mid  shrieks  as  from  demoniac  halls. 

But  pyramids  above  these  rise. 

Whose  summits,  gleaming  gaily  bright, 
Inspire  with  hope  the  fainting  eyes. 

As  bathed  they  stand  in  golden  light, 
Lifting  their  peaks  high  o'er  the  dark, 

Like  shining  spots,  that  on  the  breast 
Of  darkened  Luna,  seem  to  mark 

Some  towering  Etna's  blazing  crest. 


182 


fa, 

THE    IRIS. 

Perched  on  these  lofty  granite  piles, 

Rise  adamantine  domes  of  power, 
Secure  from  treachery,  force,  or  wiles, 

Reared  in  Ambition's  happy  hour. 
When,  having  left  the  storm  behind. 

Of  raging  battles,  fears,  and  hates. 
He  spurns  their  threats  as  empty  wind. 

Himself  the  guardian  of  the  gates. 

Here  in  these  grand,  but  lonely  halls, — 

Unmingling  with  the  crowd  below. 
And  all  unharmed  by  what  befalls 

Poor  wanderers  in  this  world  of  woe, — 
Ambition,  well-directed,  dwells. 

While  songs  of  sorrow,  care,  and  grief. 
Give  place  to  martial  music's  swells. 

Which  proudly  hail  the  victor  chief. 

Yet  not  alone — ^without  a  friend 

To  share  his  toil-bought  honours  great. 
And  by  congenial  spirit  lend 

New  splendour  to  his  regal  state — 
Celestial  Hope  dwells  ever  near, 

And  Happiness,  her  sister  gay ; 
And  thus  they  live,  while  year  on  year 

With  rapid  pinions  rolls  away. 

But  gazing  from  these  lofty  walls, 
A  landscape  rises  bright  and  fair, 

Where  happy  light  serenely  falls 
On  scenes  of  gorgeous  beauty  there. 


■  f 

CASTLE-BUILDING. 

Hero  crystal  founts,  'mid  orient  flowers, 
Wlii(!h  radiunt  shine  in  varied  hues, 

Flow  joyous  t!irou<j;h  an  Eden's  boAvers, 
Where  perfume  loads  the  falling  dews  ; 

While  here  and  thert.,  these  laughing  streams. 

Dimpling  and  eddying  ever  gay, 
Rippling  o'er  golden  sand,  that  gleams 

Like  the  (Jolcondian  diamond's  ray. 
Leap  headlong  down  a  rocky  dell, 

And  o'er  the  heaven's  ethereal  azure 
Oast  many  a  rainbow's  glittering  spell. 

That  chains  the  heart  in  silent  pleasure. 

And  'neath  the  heaven's  o'erarching  bow, 
Bloom  laurels  proud,  and  violets  low. 
In  Iragrance  sweet,  and  beauty  rare, 
With  graceful  rose,  and  lily  ftiir; 
The  mirthful  grape,  and  crocus  glad, 
Yet  here  and  there,  geranium  sad. 
With  hawthorn,  and  ambrosia  kind, 
And  'mongst  them  all  is  ivy  twined. 

Amid  these  blooming  spirit-lands. 
Mid  chaplets  wreathed  by  Love's  own  hands. 
The  glowing  flowers  of  Love  are  found 
With  which  his  shining  locks  are  crowned  ; 
He  sings  a  song,  through  all  the  day  long. 

Of  joy,  and  of  gladness,  and  glee, 
And  he  sits  so  light,  on  his  throne  so  bright. 

Oh  ever  a  conquering  king  is  he  ! 


183 


184  THE    IRIS. 

But  when  the  Hun«ct'H  golden  dyes 
Have  fa<led  away  from  the  western  skies; 
And  these  fairy  gardens  are  seen  by  night, 
Over  their  moonlit  waters  bright, 
On  which,  as  they're  merrily  flowing  and  dancing. 
The  light  of  the  stars  is  twinkling  and  glancing. 
Theic's  a  charm  in  that  siU^nt  midnight  hour. 
They  only  can  tell  who  have  felt  its  power. 

There's  a  mystic  spell  in  its  silence  sweet, 
And  a  magic  thrill  tlirough  all  who  meet. 
Where  kindred  thoughts  together  stray, 
Whispering  beneath  pale  Luna's  ray ; 
Then  is  the  time  for  poet's  song, 
When  his  voice  on  the  zephyr  is  borne  along, 
And  slumbering  echo,  like  fairy  fay. 
Murmurs  the  words  of  his  wakening  lay. 


But  the  rosy  Ijcams  of  the  coming  morn 
Tell  us  how  fast  the  night  has  worn. 
How  far  and  free  the  soul  has  strayed. 
Wandering  'mong  scenes  in  ihncy  laid ; 
And  the  heathcock's  note,  or  the  matin  ]»cll; 
Ah  the  morning  breeze  brings  its  pealing  bwell. 
Recalls  the  soul  from  its  musings  there, 
To  find  its  "  Castles" — built  in  air. 


lancing, 
ncing. 


ngj 


11; 

well. 


^'^mmn^mmmm 


wmmtm 


,    5^ 


.._r 


MHif    umjpii«uii^«..pip,  J 


THE    LOVER'S    LEAP: 


OR,  wenona's  rock. 


BY     MRS.      MARY     EASTMAN. 

Love,  which  "rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove,"  is 
not  without  a  share  of  influence  in  the  wigwam. 

It  is  true  that  in  a  polished  avl  refined  society,  woman 
18  more  likely  to  receive  a  just  appreciation,  than  where  the 
intellect  of  man  is  like  the  one  tn,]ent  rolled  in  a  napkin, 
useless,  because  neglected  and  unimproved.  In  an  enlight^ 
ened  country,  woman  is  not  considered  as  being  only 
created  to  perform  the  household  duties  of  a  wife  and 
mother.  She  is  a  companion,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the 
word.  Her  aim,  like  his,  may  be  towards  the  great  pur- 
poses  of  life. 

Not  unmindful  of  her  first  duties,  those  which  lie  in  her 
province  alone,  she  can  go  on  towards  that  exalted  state  of 
perfection  of  which  the  soul  is  capable,  though  not  to  be 
attamed  here.  Religion,  that  teaches  her  "that  the  price 
of  a  virtuous  woman  is  far  above  rubies,"  also  commends 
her  that  «  she  openeth  her  mouth  with  wisdom."  We  find 
her  in  the  sacred  history  not  only  the  friend,  the  mother 
and  the  wife,  but  the  poet,  the  heroine,  the  prophetess,  and 
even  the  judge.     But  aiuong  Indian  nations  we  find  her 


Mi m  I 


Ffi"»n||f!WWT'^ 


mil  III"!  iviv^pnwi 


186 


THE    IRIS. 


position  more  than  equivocal.  Her  influence  is  undoubted 
in  the  domestic  relations,  but  she  is  still  a  slave.  She  was 
born  to  labour — what  merit  then  in  her  strongest  efforts  ! 
She  is  an  inferior — how  then  can  she  hope  for  justice  ? 

Among  the  Sioux,  the  men  appear  indeed  to  be  a  supe- 
rior class  of  beings.  They  are  noble-looking,  while  the 
women  are  often  repelling  in  appearance.  The  difficulties 
with  which  they  must  contend  in  the  harsh  climate  of  their 
country ;  their  poverty  increasing  year  after  year ;  their 
frequent  and  long  fastings  :  these  all  make  the  men  more 
hardy,  more  capable  of  a  continued  struggle,  but  they  have 
a  different  effect  upon  the  women.  They  are  compelled  to 
remain  in  the  lodge ;  the  care  of  their  children  obliges  them 
to  forego  the  excitement  of  seeking  for  food,  and  thus  sick- 
ness and  even  death  is  often  brought  upon  them  that  could 
otherwise  have  been  avoided.  They  are  often  found  buried 
in  the  snow  in  winter,  prevented  by  sickness  from  making 
such  efforts  as  saved  the  lives  of  their  husbands  and 
brothers. 

But  their  noble  courage,  where  the  emotions  of  the  heart 
are  concerned,  gives  them  the  first  place  in  the  romantic 
traditions  of  their  country. 

The  Sioux  will  soon  have  taken  a  farewell  look  of  the 
lands  which  the  Great  Spirit  gave  them  in  the  olden  time. 
The  lodge  and  its  occupants  are  vanishing  away.  The  oc- 
casional war-whoop  will  soon  be  forgotten  where  it  has  been 
heard  in  unrecorded  ages.  The  scenes  of  many  a  romantic 
tradition  will  be  forgotten  by  those  who  succeed  the  valiant 
but  doomed  people,  who  must  look  upon  them  no  more. 
The  hunter  and  his  wild  steed  depart,  and  the  white  man. 


^^'"'^mmmi^mmifmmmmmmmmmmmmm 


m 


THE    lover's    leap. 


187 


the  axo,  the  plough,  and  the  powder-horn  take  their  place.* 
The  Cuiry-ringHt  on  the  prairie  must  be  trodden  down. 

*  Tli«  Heal  of  MincHota,  adopted  in  1850,  represents  an  Indian  warrior 
dopurting  on  lii»  Htccd:  while  a  huHbandman  is  in  the  foreground,  sur- 
round«d  hy  the  implements  of  civilization,-thc  plough,  axe,  and  rifle.  The 
scene  Ih  located  at  Anthony's  Falls. 

t  On  tlio  prairies  we  frequently  observe  what  the  Sioux  call  Fairy-rings. 
Theso  arc  circles,  occasioned  by  the  grass  growing  in  this  form,  higher  and 
of  a  darker  colour  than  that  around  it.     Medicine-Bottle,  an  inferior  chief, 
living  mw  about  twenty  miles  from  Fort  Snelling,  says  that  "  they  are  the 
paths  in  which  their  ancestors  danced  their  war-dances;"  the  Indians  at 
Lttc  qui  Parlo  say  the  same  thing.     In  confirmation  of  this  opinion,  it  may 
bo  stated,  that  these  circles  of  dark  grass  vary  about  as  much  from  true 
circles  as  dr.  the  paths  in  which  the  Hioux  dance  at  the  present  time. 
Che<iu.,rcd  (Jloud,  a  medicine-woman,  much  esteemed  among  the  Sioux, 
says  "  that  these  circles  were  made,  in  the  first  instance,  by  one  of  their 
gods,  Unk  tomi  sapa  tonka,  the  large  black  spider,  for  the  warriors  to 
dance  in,"     1  will  observe  that  Dr.  Williamson,  a  missionary  among  the 
Hioux,  nKjucstcd  from  the  two  Indians  mentioned  their  opinion  on  this 
object,  telling  them  I  had  asked  it.      Dr.  Williamson  gives  his  own 
opinion,  f.r  rather  observation,  thus  :~"  It  seems  to  me,  from  the  appear- 
ance of  these  circles,  that  they  enlarge  every  year :  and  I  have  thought  it 
probable  that  they  originated  from  the  death  of  some  large  animal,  or 
other  like  «uiusc,  destroying  the  common  grass  of  the  prairie  and  enriching 
the  ground,  thus  starting  grass  of  another  kind,  or  weeds  which  grow 
ninkly  in  this  manner,  and  overshadowing,  and  to  some  extent  destroying 
the  surrounding  grass,  the  next  year  taking  possession  of  the  ground  from 
which  the  cotntnon  grass  has  been  dest'-oyed,  &c." 

"  On  mentioning  this  and  your  letter  to  Mr.  G.  II.  Pond,"  Dr.  W.  con- 
tinues, "  he  said,  Lieut.  Mather,  the  geologist,  who  visited  this  country 
(Minesota)  with  Featherstonhaugh,  many  years  ago,  had  advanced  the 
same  opinion.  In  confirmation  of  it,  I  would  observe,  that  in  the  large 
prairies  up  the  Ht.  Peter's  River,  I  have  often  seen  buflFalo  bones  in 
these  clrdcH"     Mr.  Pond,  the  Doctor  adds,  did  not  think  these  circles 


-"-n" 


UPWPP 


188 


THE    IRIS. 


Spirits  will  no  more  assemble  whore  are  heard  the  noise  and 
excitement  of  advancing  civilization.  The  same  sun  gilds 
the  hills,  the  same  breezes  play  ui)on  the  waters — but  the 
red  man  must  go. 

F?  must,  with  his  heart  full  of  patriotism  and  sorrow, 
find  another  site  for  his  lodge,  another  country  for  his  hunt- 
ing-grounds. The  wakecn-stone  to  which  he  was  sacrificed 
is  no  longer  his.  The  graves  of  his  ancestors  reproach  him 
as  he  departs. 

The  illustration  of  Wenona's  Keck  presents  one  of  the 
most  striking  and  beautiful  scenes  in  Indian  country.  Even 
were  there  no  tradition  connected  with  it,  its  wonderful 
beauty  must  give  it  interest.  One  must  indeed  feel  that 
God  made  it.  That  huge  rock  with  its  worn  and  broken 
sides — the  lake  that  reflects  it  in  her  placid  bosom — the 
everlasting  hills  stretching  out  before  the  eye, — these  would 
show  the  Creator's  handiwork. 

But  there  is  an  additional  interest  in  viewing  it  when  we 
recall  the  tale  of  sorrow  an<l  passion  connected  with  it. 
When  we  recollect  that  Iwre  a  young  heart  throbbed  its  last 
emotions — that  from  that  high  eminence  the  sweet  notes  of 
woman's  voice  pealed  forth  their  lust  music.  That  here  her 
arms  were  raised  to  heaven,  appealing  for  that  justice  which 
earth  had  denied  her. 

But  it  is  not  only  on  Wenona's  Rock  that  the  devotion 
of  an  Indian  woman's  love  is  re(U)rded.    Go  among  them 

originated  in  this  way :  saying,  Honm  MUppoMcd  tlii-y  were  caused  by  a 
mineral  in  the  soil,  and  that  lie  hud  ohHorvud,  that  when  cattle  came  on  or 
near  these  circles,  they  ulwuyH  cut  the  dark  graHS  in  the  ring  close  to  the 
ground,  neglecting  or  passing  over  tliut  growing  elHcwherc. 


•1P«WPWI^ 


m^mm 


mm 


MB 


"' 


loise  and 
lun  gilds 
-but  the 

.  sorrow, 
tiis  hunt- 
sacrificed 
)ach  him 

e  of  the 
y.  Even 
wonderful 
feel  that 
d  broken 
lom — the 
!se  would 

when  we 
with  it. 
id  its  last 
b  notes  of 
;  here  her 
ice  which 


devotion 
)ng  them 


aused  by  a 
came  on  or 
close  to  the 


mmmmm 


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■■t.>,Y  iwwuM-rj^-^--^     nppp^ipp 


mimmmm 


THE   LOVER  S    LEAP. 


189 


and  hear  the  traditions  of  each  band;  how  many  have 
loved  and  died.  Learn  of  the  sacrifices  that  only  woman 
can  make— of  the  devotion  that  only  woman  can  feel — of 
the  sorrows  that  only  woman  can  endure. 

You  may  see  one,  who,  though  past  her  youth,  still 
attracts  you  by  the  full  and  expressive  glances  of  her  dark 
and  brilliant  eyes.  Her  hair  (a  marvel  among  Indians), 
waves  along  her  forehead — and  when  damp  from  heat  or 
bathing,  divides  itself  into  locks,  that  would  with  any  pains 
be  formed  into  ringlets.  Her  smile  lights  up  her  counte- 
nance, for  her  white  teeth  shine,  and  her  mouth,  though 
large,  is  expressive.  She  will  not  open  her  heart  to  a 
stranger,  but  to  one  she  loves,  she  told  all. 

She  had  seen  but  fourteen  summers  when  she  left  her 
mother  to  go  to  her  husband's  lodge.  She  loved  to  dwell 
upon  that  time,  for  no  bride  ever  boasted  greater  adorn- 
ment, and  her  marriage  was  celebrated  according  to  the  old 
and  venerated  customs.* 

She  was  a  whole  morning  preparing  herself,  for  her 
mother  loved  her,  and  was  proud  of  her.  She  hod  obtained 
from  the  traders  gay  beads  of  every  colour,  and  brooches  in 
numbers,  too. 

Her  father  was  a  favourite  of  the  traders.  He  carried 
them  so  many  beautiful  furs — for  he  was  a  great  hunter — 
thi.t  they  gave  him  trinkets  for  her  in  abundance.  They 
gave  him,  besides,  fire-water;  and  then  she  and  her  mother 


*  The  marriage  custom  of  the  Sioux  is  given  in  <<  Dacota,  or  Legends  of 
the  Sioux."  The  ancient  form,  as  represented  in  the  illustration,  is  still 
venerated,  and  frequently,  though  not  always  celebrated. 


"-7^ 


>»  ■ 


190' 


THE    IIII8. 


used  to  leave  the  wigwam  and  hide,  for  fear  he  would  kill 
her. 

When  nhe  waH  ready  to  go  to  her  husband's  lodge,  her 
father  and  two  of  her  brothers  attended  her.  Her  cousin, 
Whistling  Wind,  came  to  meet  her,  and,  taking  her  upon 
his  back,  carried  her  in  and  placed  her  by  her  husband's 
side. 

Slie  was  very  happy  at  first,  for  her  hnsliand  loved  her; 
but  many  mmttiH  passed  away,  and  she  had  no  child. 

Her  husband  reprojiched  her,  and  she  could  only  weep — 
and  no  infant's  voice  was  heard  in  their  lodge. 

At  last  her  husband  brought  home  another  wife,  and  she 
was  forgotten.  Soon  the  watched  him  as  he  carved  the 
thunder-bird  on  his  son's  cradle ;  and  the  second  wife 
laughed  at  her,  because  she  could  not  be  a  happy  mother 
like  herself. 

He  has  beaten  her  sometimes — for  he  drinks  fire-water 
too. 

She  might  return  to  her  mother,  for  her  family  is  a 
powerful  ojie,  but  she  cannot  leave  her  husband.  She  can- 
not forget  the  love  of  her  early  youth.  She  stays  by  him, 
for  he  is  often  sick,  and  she  can  take  better  care  of  him 
than  his  other  wife,  who  has  many  young  children. 

Wherever  is  man,  with  his  proud,  exacting  spirit,  there 
is  woman,  with  her  devoted  and  enduring  love.  There  are 
many  instances  of  heroic  affection,  not  recorded  in  the 
traditionary  annals  of  the  Sioux ;  but  Wenona's  Rock  will 
stand,  as  long  as  the  world  lasts,  a  monument  in  memory 
of  woman's  love. 


mmimmmmmmmmtm 


^mmmmmfmrnmn^mm 


THE    INDI4N    MOTHER, 


AND  THE  SONQ  OF  THE  WIND. 


BY  MRS.  MARY  EASTMAN. 

Softly  the  Indian  mother*  sings— 

"  Woman's  heart  is  strong, 
When  she  works  for  those  she  loves, 

Through  the  summer's  day  so  long. 
Hark!  to  the  wind's  wild  voice,  my  babe— 

What  may  its  story  be. 
Stirring  thy  cradle-bed,  securely  laid 

In  the  arms  of  the  forest  tree?" 

"  We  have  travelled  afar,  but  we  come  again; 
We  have  passed  o'er  the  couch  of  weakness  and  pain; 
We  have  seen  the  gifted  from  earth  depart; 
•     We  have  fanned  the  brow  of  the  broken  heart; 

We  have  fled  from  the  shrieks  of  the  mighty  in  death, 
From  the  battle's  rage  and  the  victor's  breath ; 

*  Indian  women  take  great  interest  in  listening  to  instruction  connected 
with  religious  subjects.  They  often  deplore  the  difference  in  their  po.sition 
from  that  of  the  white  woman,  desiring  for  themselves  and  their  children 
the  thousand  comforts  and  advantages  they  observe  the  wives  and  children 
of  the  white  man  possess.  Only  can  they  ever  hope  to  enjoy  them  when 
their  nation  becomes  a  Christian  one. 


192 


THE    IRIS. 


We  have  been  at  the  grave— at  the  infant's  birth; 
We  know  all  the  cares  of  the  children  of  earth. 

•'  Our  wail  is  heard  o'or  the  mighty  deep, 
In  whose  breast  the  loved  and  lost  ones  sleep, 
When,  sweeping  in  rage,  the  hurricane  blast 
Tosses  to  heaven  the  waters  vast. 
When  we  bear  o'er  the  foaming  and  dashing  main 
The  voices  that  ne'er  will  be  heard  again ; 
Yet  we  come  and  go  at  His  will,  who  said 
To  the  sea  'Be  still!'  and  its  waves  obeyed. 

"  The  air  was  still  as  we  stayed  our  breath. 
While  the  mother  wept  o'er  her  young  child's  death- 
A  fatherless  child;  'twas  peacefully  laid, 
So  placid  and  calm,  'neath  the  curtain's  shade. 
Yet,  pressing  the  clay  to  her  throbbing  breast, 
'Oh!  when,'  she  cried,  'will  I  be  at  rest?' 
We  sang  for  the  child  a  requiem  low. 
And  the  mother's  to  sing  on  our  way  we  go. 

"  But  why  should  we  chaunt  of  sorrow  and  gloom. 
Of  night  and  the  tempest,  of  tears  and  the  tomb? 
Those  who  are  parted  shall  meet  again — 
The  sea  yield  her  victims,  the  earth  her  slain ; 
Our  mission  we  haste  o'er  ocean  to  bear ; 
We  tell  of  his  glory  whose  servants  we  are. 
We  quell  with  our  tidings  the  idol's  dark  power. 
That  the  cries  of  its  victims  be  heard  never  more. 


THE    INDIAN    MOTHER.  I93 

"  We  raiHc  from  the  earth  the  spirit  crushed ; 
At  the  sight  of  the  cross  its  murmurs  are  hushed. 
Our  voice  k  heard,  and  the  wandering  son 
In  spirit  turns  to  his  long-left  home. 
He  remembers  his  father's  voice  in  prayer, 
And  he  kneels  by  the  side  of  his  mother  there ; 
And  he  cries,  while  his  steps  are  homeward  trod, 
'  Oh  I  be  thou  mine,  my  father's  God !' 

''  Alike  is  the  charge  and  the  mission  given 
To  the  faithful  heart  and  the  winds  of  heaven, 
To  tell  how  the  Saviour  came  to  earth. 
How  i)oor  he  was  from  the  hour  of  his  birth : 
His  own  griefs  unheeded,  for  others  he  sighed; 
Of  the  life  that  he  lived,  of  the  death  that  he  died. 
To  earth's  farthest  shore  these  tidings  we  bear- 
All  glory  to  Him  whose  servants  we  are." 

Again  the  Indian  mother  sings 

"  Woman's  heart  is  strong, 
When  she  works  for  those  she  loves. 

Through  the  summer's  day  so  long. 
I  would  know  what  the  wild  winds  said,  my  babe— 

Wluit  could  their  story  be, 
Stirring  thy  cradle-bed,  securely  laid 

In  the  arms  of  the  forest  tree?" 


THE  WOOD  SPIRITS  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

BY     MBS.    MABY     EASTMAN. 

Tho«e  who  have  lived  among  the  Intllani  are  accuntomcd  to  tholr  faith  In  the  protecting  power 
of  the  Spirits  of  Nature.    Especially  powerful  Is  the  god  of  the  woods  and  furusta. 

Day  with  its  gorgeous  light  passes  away, 
Shadows  of  coming  night  darken  the  way. 

Who  is  the  wanderer 

With  the  long  braided  hair  ? 

'Mid  the  tall  evergreens, 

She  like  a  fairy  seems  j 

Know  ye  the  maiden  young, 

Wood  Spirits,  say  ? 

Know  we  the  maiden  young— mark  well  her  form. 
Like  the  tall  pine  tree,  when  rages  the  storm. 

How  like  the  dark  bird's  wing 

Glistens  her  braided  hair. 

When  watching  o'er  her  birth. 

Sang  we  a  song  of  earth, 

We  were  her  guardians  made, 

She  was  our  child. 


Soon  o'  r  her  body  cold,  chaunt  we  her  funeral  hymn, 
Wild  branches,  torn  and  old,  timing  the  requiem. 


THE    WOOD    SPIRITS    AND    THE    MAIDEN.  105 

Why  does  slie  wander  hero, 
With  the  long  braided  hair? 
Why  is  the  maiden  pale — 
Why  does  her  breathing  fail  ? 
Now,  by  the  moonbeams  fair, 
See  her  dimmed  eye. 

She  loved  as  maiden  loves,  she  wept  as  woman  weeps. 
Soon  will  her  restless  frame  sleep  where  her  lover  sleeps 

Then  to  our  far-off  groves 

Will  we  her  spirit  bear. 

When  heaves  her  parting  sigh, 

When  closed  her  lustrous  eye, 

We  will  her  guardians  be, — 

She  is  our  child. 


mn. 


ALICE  HILL. 


BY     MKS.     M.     E.     W.     AliEXANDER. 


Fast  by  a  brook,  whose  murmuring  streams 

Reflected  heaven  in  angel  dreams, 

E:    Josomed  in  a  quiet  wood, 

An  old  and  storm-rent  school-house  stood. 

All  brown  with  age  and  worn  by  rains, 

Rude  winter  shook  the  shattered  jmnes. 

That  shivered  in  their  casements  light. 

Like  goblins'  teeth  on  windy  night. 

But  when  the  sun  shone  down  the  hill, 

On  smiling  field  and  gushing  rill, 

And  by  the  school-house  danced  the  brook, 

Through  hidden  course  or  leafy  nook. 

On  shattered  panes  in  casement  light 

Its  summer  rays  streamed  clear  and  bright. 

Of  pleasant  ways  and  knowledge  fair, 

Blithe  Alice  Hill  reigned  mistress  there, — 

Nor  birchen  rod  nor  oaken  rule 

In  terror  held  this  woodland  school ; 

Love  awed  the  spirits  bold  and  wild, 

Love  won  the  most  rebellious  child, — 

0,  Alice  Hill!  just  sweet  sixteen. 

Of  pleasant  ways  and  courteous  mien, 


ALICE    UILL. 

With  glowing  cheeks  and  eyes  of  blue, 
And  glossy  hair  of  golden  hue, 
0  God  1  that  I  should  over  live. 
Such  sad  account  of  thee  to  give ! 

In  Morcland  vale  brown  Autumn's  tilthe, 
Impatient  waits  the  reaper's  scythe : 
Where,  scattered  with  a  bounteous  hand, 
Luxuriant  harvests  thickly  stand. 
The  sunlight  bathes  the  waving  grain, 
That  sweetly  smiles  to  sun  again ; 
The  landscape  lies  in  green  and  gold, 
And  purple  clouds  in  ether  rolled. 
Or  gentle  blue  now  smile  above 
This  earthly  scene  of  Eden  love. 

With  dashing  wheels  and  flying  steed, 

Nor  whip  nor  spur  to  urge  their  speed. 

To  view  his  land  Fitch  Morcland  came. 

The  eldest  of  his  honoured  name. 

And  heir  of  all,  the  green-crowned  wood, 

In  which  the  low-roofed  school-house  stood, 

riic  wide-spread  fields,  the  meadows  broad. 

Vim  fruitful  land  and  grassy  sward, 

And  near  embraced  with  roses  wild 

The  old  brown  house  that  through  them  smiled, 

Where  Alice  Hill  had  passed  her  days 

Unnoticed  by  a  flatterer's  gaze ; 

And  Rudolph  Hill,  a  farmer  skilled. 

The  fields  had  reaped,  the  lands  had  tilled, 

Fit(!h  Moreland's  tenant,  prompt  to  pay 

His  rent  and  taxes  gathering  day. 


'n 


rv 


197 


"wmmgHif^^ 


198  THE  IRIS. 

Just  free  from  school,  with  Hhont  and  song. 
Fitch  Moreland  met  a  joyouH  throng, 
And  joined  their  sports,  with  heart  us  gay. 
As  boyhood  had  not  passed  away  ; 
Till  seated  in  a  fairy  glade, 
Beneath  an  elm  tree's  grateful  shade, 
Sweet  Alice  Hill  fell  on  his  sight, 
With  glowing  cheeks  and  ((yes  of  light : 
Around  her  neck,  her  hair  unbound. 
In  floating  tresses  swept  the  ground, 
And  pupils  kneeling  at  lier  side, 
Wild  flowers  in  graceful  garlands  tied, 
A  coronal  as  fresh  and  gay 
As  ever  crowned  "  the  Queen  of  May." 


With  courteous  words  and  city  mien. 
Fitch  Moreland  joined  tlio  rustic  scene. 
Quick  beat  the  heart  of  Alice  Hill, 
Her  pulses  woke  a  music  thrill : 
Her  glowing  cheek  with  crimson  flushed, 
And  in  her  heart  tumultuous  gushed 
A  spring  of  thought,  so  sweet  and  rare, 
It  might  have  claimed  the  name  of  air, 
Its  unseen  visions  canie  so  ])right, 
To  shed  on  life  a  holier  light. 
0  ye  who  wear  love's  gentle  spell, 
And  bless  the  bondage,  can  ye  tell 
Blithe  Alice  Hill  if  this  was  Love, — 
That  like  a  homeless,  wandering  dove. 
Beat  at  her  fluttering  heart,  and  sought 
An  altar  for  his  blissful  thought? 


■P 


mm 


ALICE    HILL. 

No  longer  now,  like  placid  streams, 

Life  passes  by  in  quiet  dreams ; 

But  hurried,  feverish  pulses  shake 

The  beating  heart  they  may  not  break, — 

Hope,  fear,  desire,  and  all  that  stored 

The  spring  of  life,  hung  on  his  word : 

There  was  no  life  without  his  smile, 

Nor  dreamed  she  that  a  heart  of  guile 

Beat  in  so  fair  and  smooth  a  shrine. 

That  other  eyes  for  him  might  shine, 

And  softer  voices  breathe  his  name  ! 

0,  Alice  Hill,  love's  vestal  flame 

Hath  many  a  false,  misguiding  light, 

To  cheat  young  hearts,  with  promise  bright. 

And  strew  life's  shores  with  dearer  wrecks 

Than  perish  from  our  wave-washed  decks. 

The  fowler  laid  a  cunning  snare : 
The  timid  bird  was  fluttering  there. 
And  paused  on  half-suspended  wing. 
To  hear  the  subtle  charmer  sing  ; 
Close  to  the  brink,  with  dizzy  sense, 
She  hung  upon  his  eloquence ; 
Lured  by  the  magic  of  his  eje. 
She  quite  forgot  her  power  to  fly, 
Till  reeling,  powerless  with  the  spell, 
She  lost  her  fragile  hold  and  fell. 


199 


The  fowler  saw  his  kvely  spoil 
Entangled  in  the  dazzling  toil. 


200 


THE    IRIS. 


A  few  frail  threads  of  woven  gauze, 
But  deadly  as  the  lion's  jaws. 
Not  till  her  golden  wings  were  shorn, 
The  timid  bird  escaped  forlorn — 
To  soar  with  flocks  of  grosser  mould, 
An  alien  from  the  heavenly  fold. 


The  timid  bird,  a  human  heart — 
The  snare,  a  smooth  seducer's  art — 
HovV^  can  my  pitying  pen  rehearse 
The  burden  of  its  mournful  verse, 
Since  he  who  triumphed  in  his  power 
To  crush  so  meek  and  low  a  flower. 
Contemptuous  spurned  it  from  his  path, 
To  die  a  lone  neglected  death, 
And  to  the  winds  his  bauble  tost — 
Left  Alice  Hill,  betrayed  and  lost. 
And,  Alice  Hill,  his  haughty  name 
Will  never  hide  thy  maiden  shame — 
And  though  he  swear  it  on  his  life, 
Thou'lt  never  be  Fitch  Moreland's  wife ! 


"  Farewell,  my  own,  my  waiting  bride ! 
Though  I  am  wandering  from  thy  side, 
And  from  these  favourite  haunts  afar, 
I  see  thine  eyes  in  every  star, 
I  hear  thy  voice  in  every  breeze. 
That  floats  through  summer's  radiant  trees ; 
And  thou  shalt  wear  our  bridal  ring. 
And  wear  it  as  a  holy  thing. 


ALICE    HILL. 


201 


Till,  to  the  sacred  altar  led, 

It  be  the  seal  by  which  we  wed." 

Years  rolled  down  Time's  resistless  tides 

Where  Time,  Eternity  divides ; 

Fitch  Moreland,  high  in  hall  and  state, 

Cared  not  that  by  the  elm  tree  sate 

Poor  Alice  Hill,  to  reason  lost, 

Like  oarless  bark  on  ocean  tost ; 

Not  wildly  crazed  to  tear  her  hair, 

But  mute  and  sad,  as  if  despair 

Had  worn  away  life's  tuneful  strings. 

And  sealed  to  Thought  its  gushing  springs. 

But  on  that  ring  mute  Alice  Hill 

For  ever  looks,  as  if  a  thrill 

Of  reason  shot  across  her  brain, 

And  darted  gleams  of  mental  pain. 

Bold  Winter  lay  on  Moreland  Vale. 
His  bearded  crown  of  ice  and  hail. 
And  columns  wreathed  in  feathery  snow, 
How  childhood  dreams  of  glory  show. 
Fast  by  these  piles,  on  reeking  steed, 
A  post-boy  checked  his  furious  speed. 
And  whispered  to  a  gaping  wight, 
"  Fitch  Moreland  takes  a  wife  to-night." 
Mute  Alice  Hill  the  echo  caught, — 
With  stealthy  steps  the  town  she  sought, 
That  three  leagues  off  in  beauty  lay 
Along  Wamphassock's  lovely  bay — 


'  'i^M"iWiiP!ipp*n,IiHpi 


ii.liiilJinii«|lll|HI 


202 


THE    IRIS. 


With  hair  arranged  and  graceful  dress, 
None  would  have  dreamed  such  loveliness 
Concealed  a  heart  ■•  o  reason  lost, 
Like  oarless  bark  on  ocean  tost. 

Light,  glorious  light,  streamed  clear  and  wide. 

Through  the  proud  dome  of  Moreland's  bride. 

And  mirth  and  music  chid  the  hours 

Lost  in  a  maze  of  thornless  flowers. 

His  eye  erect  in  manly  pride, 

Fitch  Moreland  stood  beside  his  bride. 

Nor  dreamed  he  that  his  Eden  bough 

Hung  on  a  false  and  perjured  vow. 

The  holy  priest  in  scarf  and  bands 

With  holy  words  had  joined  their  hands. 

And  as  to  make  more  strong  an  oath. 

When  each  had  pledged  their  plighted  troth, 

A  gleaming  ring  in  diamonds  set, 

That  hid  a  lock  of  glossy  jet, 

The  fragile  finger  graceful  pressed, 

As  sunlight  lies  on  ocean's  crest. 


A  maddened  brain,  a  spirit  strong, 
Has  pressed  aside  that  startled  throng. 
With  glaring  eyes  and  purple  cheeks. 
Fitch  Moreland's  side  a  woman  seeks. 
While  o'er  her  half-ethereal  frame 
The  altar  sheds  its  holy  flame. 
The  grasp  on  Moreland's  arm  was  light, 
But  those  wild  eyes,  so  wildly  bright, 


m<m   ■ 


ALICE    HILL.  203 

Ilis  craven  soul  with  terror  fill, 

For  now  he  knows  crazed  Alice  Hill. 

A  ring  she  from  her  finger  drew, 

And  held  it  forth  to  Moreland's  view, 

And  murmured  low,  in  tones  that  thrilled 

HIh  thickly  throbbing  pulse,  and  stilled 

The  awu-Htruck  guests,  as  if  a  breath 

Had  touched  them  from  the  wing  of  death  : 

"  Four  times  twelve  months  have  quickly  fled — 

This  bo  the  seal  by  which  we  wed. 

And  in  this  light  empyreal  bow. 

To  couHucrate  our  bridal  vow ! 

I  sit  beneath  the  elm  alone 

Since  thou,  my  own,  my  love,  art  gone. 

Where  hast  thou  trifled  on  the  way. 

Like  truant-boy  forbid  to  stay? 

But  hush,  my  heart,  thou  needst  not  chide  : 

Fitch  Moreland  claims  his  waiting  bride ! 

My  beating  heart,  what  raptures  thrill. 

Tumultuous  heart,  be  still !  be  still !" 


A  Htui'dy  arm  grasped  Alice  Hill, 
Who  struggling  fiercely,  shrieking  shrill. 
Out  iVom  the  door  was  rudely  cast, 
Though  storms  were  out  and  tide  and  blast. 
Tliere  shivering  on  the  pavement  cold 
Sat  Alice  Hill,  with  spirit  bold. 
Housed  by  a  blow,  revenge  to  claim 
For  reason  lost  and  peace  and  name. 
The  holy  priest  completes  his  task, 
And  bride  and  groom  his  blessing  ask. 


204 


THE    IRIS. 


What  Ijcnediction  can  rcverso 
A  wronged  and  ruined  woman's  curse  ? 
With  lettered  handn  and  ringlets  shorn, 
Poor  Alice  Hill,  a  maniac,  borne 
On  to  the  mad-house's  gloomy  walls, 
For  ever  on  Fitch  Morchind  calls, — 
"  I  am  not  mad !    Unloose  these  bands  ! 
►See  here  my  tortured,  })leeding  hands  ! 
On  Moreland's  ring  a  crimson  stain  : 
It  shall  not  plead  my  wrongs  in  vain  ; 
For  in  my  heart  revenge  lies  deep — 
Its  glassy  eyes  shall  never  sleep, 
Till  at  the  altar,  live  or  dead, 
This  be  the  seal  by  which  we  wed  !" 


A  pallet,  undisturbed  by  night. 
Fell  on  the  careful  matron's  sight. 
And  Ali^^e  Hill  from  thence  had  fled, 
With  shoeless  feet  and  naked  head. 
Long  was  the  search,  and  every  track 
Pursued  to  bring  cra/ed  Alice  back. 
But  vain  pursuit,  reward  in  vain, 
To  bring  crazed  Alice  back  again. 
Wrapped  in  a  cloak  of  faded  red, 
With  shoeless  feet  and  naked  head, 
And  ringlets  shorn,  a  woman  stood 
Half  muttering,  in  a  cra/y  mood. 
And  watched  with  glazed  and  jealous  eye 
A  gorgeous  ec^uipage  move  by. 
Reined  in  the  light  of  glaring  lamps 
The  restless  steed  his  bridle  champs. 


ALICE    HILL. 


205 


A  form  alights  with  agile  bound, 
But  reeling,  totters  to  the  ground. 
They  said,  who  passed,  a  weapon's  gleam 
Danced  in  the  moonlight's  silvery  beam. 
Crowds  gathered  round,  a  crimson  tide 
Was  slowly  ebbing  from  his  side. 
When  on  their  sight  a  weapon  flashed. 
And  feet  that  living  current  plashed, 
Till  bending  o'er  his  shivering  frame 
A  woman  wildly  shrieked  his  name, 
"  Turn  on  me  now  your  treacherous  eyes  I 
Speak,  lying  lips,  while  perjury  dies. 
See  what  a  work  a  flilsehood  wrought, 
My  love  with  life  were  dearly  bought, 
But  peace  and  reason  with  it  fled — 
Eternal  curses  on  your  head ! 
You  stole  my  love,  an  artless  child 
By  sacred  promises  beguiled. 
Then  left  me  to  a  blighted  name, 
To  add  new  laurels  to  your  fame  ; — 
To  death's  avenging  altar  led. 
This  be  the  seal  by  which  we  wed." 


Upraised,  the  weapon  gleamed  again 
On  coward  hearts  and  awe-struck  men  ; 
Beside  Fitch  Moreland,  fainting,  dead. 
Lay  Alice  Hill,  their  spirits  wed 
In  that  eternal,  dreamless  sleep. 
Where  souls  their  solemn  bridals  keep. 


DR.  VANDORSEN  AND  THE  YOUNG  WIDOW. 


BY   ANN    G.     rORTE  It. 


To  assure  my  readers  that  I  am  telling  them  what  is 
truth,  and  not  drawing  upon  the  treasury  of  fancy  for  a 
sketch,  I  will  first  rehate  to  them  in  what  manner  I  became 
acquainted  with  the  Doctor  and  the  Widow.  I  was  once  a 
teacher:  yes,  for  seven  years  I  held  sway  in  the  school- 
room, and  learned  by  severe  discipline  the  art  of  self-govern- 
ment, and  to  bear  in  secret  many  a  sorrow  of  which  the 
cherished  daughter  in  the  domestic  circle  remains  in  bliss- 
ful ignorance.  Whenever  I  see  a  young  lady,  at  the  close 
of  school-hours,  turning  with  a  weary  step  to  her  solitary 
room  in  some  boarding-house,  my  first  impulse  is  to  go  and 
ask  her  to  share  my  own  fireside,  sit  down  at  my  table, 
and  forget  for  a  while,  in  my  little  family  circle,  that  she  is 
away  from  the  loved  ones  of  her  own  home. 

I  shall  nevev  forget  my  first  preparations  for  leaving 
home.  I  was  to  go  eight  hundred  miles, — a  long  journey  in 
the  days  of  stages  and  canal-boats.  My  little  purse  grew 
thin  and  lank  under  the  unusual  exertion.  I  had  a  trunk 
and  a  large  bandbox  (the  latter  article  I  have  since  learned 
to  dispense  with)  :  in  this  was  placed  all  the  "  varieties"  of 
my  wardrobe,  as  Parson  Milton  would  call  them ;  or  the 
accessories  to  strengthen  the  arsenal,  as  Bonaparte  termed 


DR.    VANDORSEN    AND    TUE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     207 


the  feminino  requisites  to  the  toilet.  My  little  store  of  col- 
larets, ribbons,  and  cravats,  my  lace  capes  and  fancry  hand- 
kerchiefs were  all  folded  in  one  box,  and  placed  inside  the 
larger  one.  They  were  few  in  number ;  but  what  girl  of 
eighteen  does  not  cherish  her  own  small  hoard  of  treasures? 
I  was  to  go  as  far  as  Pittsburg  in  the  company  of  a  lady 
and  her  brother,  a  boy  of  sixteen.  Three  days  and  nights  we 
were  to  travel  by  stage,  stopping  only  for  meals,  and  occa- 
sioruilly  an  hour  for  rest,  besides  the  intervals  caused  by 
changing  horses.  Two  strangers,  young  gentlemen  from 
Philadel))hia,  joined  us  at  the  latter  city,  and  remained 
with  the  party  to  Pittsburg.  Nothing,  i)erhaps,  makes 
peoj)le  Ixjtter  ac(iuaintcd  with  the  disposition  of  tiieir  com- 
panions, than  the  old-ftishioned  mode  of  coach-travelling ; 
the  l)etty  troubles  and  peculiar  annoyances  excite  the 
mirth  of  some,  but  elicit  only  the  grumbling  of  others,  so 
that  for  days  together  we  are  entertained  by  the  fun  of 
laughter-loving  girls,  and  gallant  young  gentlemen,  with 
growling  interludes  from  some  gouty  old  man,  or  the  groans 
of  an  epicure,  who  talks  only  to  condemn  the  dinner,  and 
curse  the  cooks. 

I  had  never  spent  a  whole  night  out  of  my  bed  Ijefore, 
and  though  the  excitement  kept  me  up  at  (irst,  I  found 
myself  so  exhausted  by  the  middle  of  the  second  night, 
that  it  was  with  difficulty  I  could  retain  my  seat. 

One  of  the  passengers,  perceiving  my  situation,  and 
alarmed  by  my  almost  deadly  paleness,  requested  the 
driver  to  stop,  and  c»rdered  a  cup  of  tea.  This,  and  a 
resting-place  for  my  poor  head,  relieved  me  a  little;  but 


208 


THE  inis. 


with  what  joy  did  wc  hail,  the  next  day  at  evening,  the 
smoky  city  of  Pittsburg. 

"  Ladies,  shall  we  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  all  our 
little  party  together  in  the  parlour  this  evening  ?"  said  one 
of  the  gentlemen.  The  next  morning  we  were  to  separate, 
taking  three  difterent  routes.  We  therefore  cheerfully  ac- 
(juiesced,  and  Miss  S.  and  myself  repaired  to  our  rooms  to 
dress.  What  was  my  astonishment  to  find  my  treasures 
gone,  and  with  them  a  valuable  breusti)in,  the  gift  of  my 
gi'andfather,  shortly  before  his  death !  I  was  weary,  sick, 
and  sad ;  but  at  the  earnest  request  of  my  companion,  I 
put  on  a  black  silk  dress,  and  felt  not  a  little  refreshed  hy 
my  bath,  and  the  privilege  of  using  thoroughly  the  brush 
and  comb,  which,  denied  me  for  two  days  and  nights,  had 
given  to  my  head,  with  its  exuberance  of  hair,  a  most 
moppish  appearance  on  the  outside,  while  the  brain  within 
seemed  to  share  the  entanglement  without. 

But  the  efforts  of  my  companions  could  not  chase  away 
the  homesickness  of  the  heart.  The  morning  would  find 
me  alone  in  the  world.  Sixty  miles  of  my  journey  were 
yet  to  be  travelled :  and,  Avearied  in  body  and  faint  in 
spirit,  I  longed  to  see  my  dear  ftither,  and  be  at  home  again 
under  his  protection.  I  shrunk,  too,  from  the  duties  before 
me :  they  seemed  more  arduoar^  juid  difficult  as  I  approached 
them ;  and  with  a  sad  feelin.::;  of  my  own  incompetency  and 
the  lack  of  personal  charms,  which  might  prepossess  my 
employers,  I  laid  my  head  upon  my  pillow  that  night  and 
watered  it  with  my  tears.  Sleep !  blessed,  blessed  Sleep ! 
Thou  dost  take  the  burdens  from  the  weary  and  fling  them 
into  the  waters  of  oblivion ;  the  infant,  in  its  guileless  rest. 


DU.    VANDORSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     209 


is  pillowed  on  thy  lap,  and  the  agod  loan  lovingly  on  thy 
shoulder.  Merciful  was  the  great  Father  of  all,  that  \w 
did  permit  thee  to  follow  Adam  from  Paradise,  and  travel 
with  his  children  in  this  world  of  guilt, — thus  are  we  per- 
mitted to  forget,  for  a  while,  at  least,  our  sorrows  and  our 
sins.  Early  the  next  morning  I  went  on  hoixnl  a  steam- 
boat for  Wheeling,  and  though  shrinking  and  timid,  I  still 
found  protection  and  kindness  when  needed;  but  when  we 
arrived,  at  midnight,  in  the  village  of  P.,  and  I  found 
myself  alone  in  a  large,  desolate-looking  room  of  the  hotel, 
all  the  former  feeling  of  sadness  came  over  me,  and  with 
them  an  indefinable  dread  of  the  future. 

I  must  send  word  to  the  patrons  of  the  school  that  I  had 
arrived :  and  fearful  that  their  expectations  would  be  dis- 
appointed, I  could  not  sleep.  The  next  morning  I  des- 
patched a  messenger,  and  two  of  the  trustees  called.  They 
were  polite,  but  said  little,  excepting  what  related  to 
business ;  but  when  they  left  me,  remarked,  '•'  We  will  pro- 
cure a  more  agreeable  home  for  you  than  this."  I  thanked 
them  with  my  lips,  but  they  little  comprehended  how 
earnestly  the  heart  craved  for  a  home  again.  The  day 
passed,  and  I  saw  no  one  till  the  twilight  shadows  were 
creeping  into  that  lonely  room,  and  with  them  also  dim 
visions  of  home  and  friends,  bringing  with  them  that  sad 
heart-longing  which  the  young  feel  during  their  first  ab- 
sence from  home,  when  I  was  startled  from  my  reverie  by 
a  gentle  knock  at  my  door.  I  opened  it,  and  an  old  lady 
stood  before  me,  so  kind,  so  motherly  in  her  appearance, 
and  so  plainly  yet  tastefully  dressed,  that  my  heart  clung 
to  her  at  first  sight.     If  my  Father  in  heaven  had  sent  an 


I 


210 


THE    IRIS. 


angel  to  me,  I  should  certainly  li.^'.  e  chosen  just  such  a  face 
and  garb,  in  my  present  condition,  rather  than  the  white 
robes  and  bright-winged  cherubs  of  Raphael's  glorious  fancy. 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,"  said  she,  as  if  struck  at  once  by 
my  girlish  figure  and  pallid  face,  "you  must  have  been 
lonely  here  to-day,  and  you  need  a  mother  to  nurse  and 
take  care  of  you  after  your  long  journey.  My  name  is 
Warner,  and  I  am  going  to  take  you  home  with  me,  if  you 
will  go.  My  brother  called  this  morning,  and  my  husband 
would  have  accompanied  me,  but  he  was  very  busy ;  and  I 
was  so  fearful  that  you  would  be  homesick,  that  I  thought 
I  would  come  and  introduce  myself." 

My  heart  bounded  with  delight,  and  I  could  hardly  speak 
for  gratitude ;  and  I  said  so  little,  and  that  in  such  a  blun- 
dering way,  that  I  was  afraid  she  would  not  know  how 
much  relief  she  had  brought  me. 

"Come,  my  dear,  get  your  bonnet,"  said  she  pleasantly, 
•'  and  I  will  send  for  your  baggage." 

I  obeyed,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  stopped  at  a  large  but 
neat  residence,  almost  hid  in  a  profusion  of  shrubbery. 
The  climbing  multiflora  rose  covered  one  side  of  the  house, 
and,  with  welcome  intrusiveness,  peeped  into  the  chamber 
windows,  while  a  honeysuckle  and  woodbine  threw  their 
mantle  of  green  over  the  door,  and  mingled  their  blossoms 
with  those  of  a  tall  snowball  tree,  which  had  grown  high, 
and,  clinging  to  the  house,  showered  a  white  welcome  upon 
every  coiner.  A  few  steps  from  the  house,  on  the  right 
side,  but  in  the  same  enclosure,  was  a  small  brick  office; — 
on  the  other  side  a  cottage,  shaded  by  two  large  beech  trees, 
children  of  the  forest,  spared  by  some  merciful  woodman 


DM.    VANDOKSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     211 


when  the  land  was  cleared.  Such  was  the  outward  appear- 
ance of  my  new  home — a  word  as  to  its  inmates.  My  com- 
panion ushered  me  into  a  small  sitting-room,  prettily  fur- 
nished, and  occupied  at  the  time  by  two  persons, — one  a 
tall,  white-haired  old  gentleman,  with  spectacles  on  nose, 
readlrjg  the  newspaper — the  other  Mrs.  Travis,  a  young 
widow,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warner,  who  had  re- 
turned  again  to  the  home  of  her  youth.  She  was  sewing 
as  we  entered,  but,  laying  aside  her  work,  rose  to  greet  us. 
Her  countenance  was  plain,  but  a  pair  of  sparkling  black 
eyes  gave  animation  and  expression  to  her  features;  and,  as 
I  returned  her  salutation,  I  thought  her  welcome  not  quite 
80  cordial  as  her  mother's.  It  seemed  to  express  this — 
"Whether  you  and  I  like  each  other  will  depend  on  cir- 
curnBtanccs."  But  the  old  gentleman  looked  at  me  for  an 
instant  over  his  spectacles;  then,  laying  them  aside  with 
his  paper,  rose,  and  taking  my  hand,  welcomed  me  to  the 
West  with  a  hearty  greeting;  then,  placing  a  chair  near  to 
his  own,  begged  me  to  be  seated.  His  whole  countenance 
was  expressive  of  goodness ;  and,  as  I  sat  down  by  his  side 
in  all  the  timidity  of  a  girlish  stranger,  I  felt,  for  the  first 
time  since  leaving  home,  a  delicious  sense  of  security  and 
peaee.  It  seemed  as  if  the  wing  of  some  guardian  angel 
was  over  imt,  and  a  refuge  opened  in  time  of  sorrow. 

And  hero,  an  pmmnt,  I  must  add,  those  first  impressions 
nevrr  <;ha',iged;  and,  from  that  hour  till  the  day  when  that 
blessed  spirit  was  carried  by  angels  to  its  own  pure  home 
in  heaven,  I  always  found  consolation  in  trouble,  advice  in 
perplexity,  and  gentle  reproof  in  error,  by  the  side  of  the 

good  old  num.     How  sweet  was  the  fragrance  of  his  daily 

14 


212 


TIIR    IRIS. 


life,  and  how  preciouH  the  kinM  lie  imprinted  upon  my 
forehead,  and  the  blessing  he  implored  upon  my  head  when 
I  bade  him  farewell !  Oh !  the  hopcjlesH  darkneiss  of  atheism, 
which  draws  the  veil  of  oblivion  b(!twcen  us  and  all  further 
intercourse  with  such  spirits!  No,  no! — let  us  rather  say 
with  St.  Paul,  "I  hunii  \\\  whom  [  have  believed;"  and 
with  Job,  "  I  sliall  live  again." 

But  my  limits  forbid  any  extended  notice  of  the  members 
of  the  family,  though  the  years  I  spent  under  that  charmed 
roof  are  marked  in  njy  life  with  a  white  stone.  There  I 
emerged  from  the  bashfid,  timid  girl,  into  the  more  active, 
energetic  woman;  and  under  the  blessed  influence  of  love  T 
trust  I  grew  wiser  and  happier. 

When,  at  nine  o'clock,  the  family  Bible  was  opened,  and 
father 

"Read  a  portioii  with  jutliiiiouH  cure, 
And  'Let  U8  worship  (lod/  lio  miid  with  solemn  air;" 


and  all  knelt  at  the  fanuly  altar  in  prayer,  my  own  heart 
was  full,  and  I  was  thankfid  that  no  eye  could  see  my  face. 
Soon  afterwards  the  old  lady  said,  "You  look  tired,  and 
must  retire;  I  will  show  you  to  your  room."  Then,  leading 
me  through  a  small  entry,  she  opened  the  door  of  a  com- 
modious room,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  This  will  be  yours." 
It  was  carpeted,  a  centre-table  wa8  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  an  open  stove  with  its  grate,  ready  at  any  chilly 
hour  for  coal,  and  a  nice,  cosy-liMiking  bed  in  one  corner  of 
the  apartment.  The  old  lady  iight<3d  a  candle,  and  bade 
me  good  night.  Did  she,  or  did  she  not,  think  I  was  a  cold- 
hearted  little  thing,  that  I  said  good  night  in  such  a  low. 
tremulous  tone?     I  know  not;  but  this  1  do  know,  that,  as 


DR.    VANDORSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     213 


soon  as  she  had  left  the  room,  I  sat  down,  and,  laying  my 
head  on  the  table,  burst  into  tears. 

They  were  tears  of  thankfulness  and  joy,  and  they  re- 
freshed the  heart,  as  a  summer  shower  the  parched  earth. 

I  seemed  a  child  again,  and,  with  my  childhood's  prayer 
upon  my  lips,  I  dropped  to  sleep  that  night.  I  would  love 
to  sit  and  write  till  night  about  my  after-life  there,  but  I 
have  limited  myself  to  one  little  episode,  and  to  that  I  will 
proceed.  I  had  been  there  some  months;  Elizabeth  had 
learned  that  we  were  so  unlike  that  we  could  love,  and 
neither  be  enemies  nor  rivals.  Her  high,  ambitious,  buoyant 
spirit  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  timid,  yielding,  sensitive 
girl  who  was  to  be  her  companion.  Not  a  single  trait  in 
the  character  of  each  came  in  collision.  One  was  self- 
reliant,  could  keep  her  own  secrets,  evtricate  herself  from 
her  own  difficulties,  feared  none  but  God,  cared  little  for 
the  opinion  of  others,  loved  deeply,  hated  cordially.  The 
other  had  an  inordinate  "love  of  approbation,"  lacked  hope 
and  courage,  but,  supported  by  a  stronger  arm,  could  endure 
the  bitterest  trial  even  to  the  end.  The  one  was  proud  to 
uphold,  the  other  loved  to  trust. 

And  thus  we  moved  on,  loved  and  loving,  whereas,  had 
we  resembled  each  other  more  closely,  bitter  heart-burnings 
and  jealousies  might  have  been  the  result.  One  day  we  sat 
together  in  the  little  sitting-room.  We  were  reading  "  Deer- 
brook."  by  Miss  Martineau,  and  wondering  that  such  want 
of  trust  and  faith  should  ever  take  place  between  sisters, 
when  the  door-bell  rang,  and  a  young  gentleman,  a  total 
stranger  to  us,  was  ushered  in.  He  was  a  tall  young  man, 
with  a  fresh  countenance,  a  somewhat  diffident  manner, 


214 


THE    IRIS. 


and  gray  eyes,  which  had  a  downcast  expression.  It  was 
difficult  for  him  to  observe  that  simple  rule  of  politeness, 
"  Look  directly  at  the  person  to  whom  you  speak."  Mr. 
Warner  endeavoured  to  make  him  more  at  his  ease  by 
casual  remarks  upon  the  weather,  and  other  topics  of  the 
day;  but  he  elicited  little  besides  "Yes,  sir,"  "No,  sir,"  "I 
agree  with  you  perfectly,  sir,"  and  suchlike  replies.  At 
last  he  drew  a  card  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it  to  Mr. 
Warner,  saying,  "  I  have  been  in  town  some  days,  and  am 
looking  oui  for  an  office.  Learning  that  the  one  near  your 
house  is  uno        led,  I  have  made  an  early  application." 

"  I  will  think  of  it,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  This  is 
Dr.  Vandorsen,  ladies,  come  to  take  up  his  residence  in 
our  village."  This  somewhat  awkward  introduction  over, 
I  took  the  opportunity  to  slip  out  of  the  room,  just  as  they 
commenced  talking  upon  the  terms  of  rent  and  other  busi- 
ness matters. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Elizabeth,  as  she  came  hastily  into 
my  room,  an  hour  afterwards ;  "  what  do  you  think  of  the 
Doctor?" 

"  Why,  I  haven't  thought  of  him  since  I  left  the  room ;  I 
have  been  preparing  my  lesson  in  Butler's  Analogy,  and  I 
assure  you  it  requires  all  the  strength  of  my  feeble  brain  to 
grasp  his  arguments  and  make  them  clear  to  my  class." 

"  A  truce  to  such  work  !  I  thought  you  had  been  study- 
ing the  young  stranger's  physiognomy,  and  were  prepared 
to  give  me  an  analysis  of  his  character." 

"  Let  me  see,"  I  said ;  "  I  cannot  give  you  his  character, 
but  I  believe  his  personal  appearance  I  can  remember; 
cheeks  like  your  rusty-coat  apples,  rusty  brown  with  a 


'  1 


DR.    VANDORSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     215 

touch  of  red,  foxy  eyes,  slick,  very  slick  hair,  as  the  Yankees 
say,  an  inflexible  spine,  and  in  one  respect  only  like  St 
Paul." 

"Pray  what  is  that?" 

"Brethren,  I  came  unto  you  in  much  imalmess  of  speech:' 

Lizzy's  eyes  snapped,  and  she  looked,  for  a  moment, 
almost  angry.  "Then,"  said  she,  "I  really  thought  you 
had  some  penetration  of  character,  but  I  must  be  mistaken. 
Did  you  not  see  the  evidence  of  fine  feelings  beneath  that 
bashful  exterior?  And  then  he  was  so  modest  and  unas- 
suming ;  why  I  no  sooner  heard  his  errand  than  my  fancy 
drew  a  beautiful  picture  in  perspective.  He  seemed  so 
much  like  yourself,— you  that  we  are  beginning  to  love  so 
much,  that  I  thought  it  would  be  love  at  first  sight.  Father 
will  let  him  have  the  office,  and  then  here's  the  cottage :  a 
nice,  snug  place  it  would  be  for  you,  and  we  could  have  you 
always  with  us,  and  a  doctor  handy  to  cure  '  the  ills  to 
which  flesh  is  heir.' " 

"  You  have  a  vivid  imagination,  truly ;  but  let  me  tell 
you  that  you  are  right  in  supposing  that  I  have  very  little 
penetration  of  character.  I  have  none;  but  sometimes, 
though  I  cannot  account  for  it,  I  have  a  strong  aversion  to  a 
person  on  the  first  meeting ;  and  when  it  is  so,  I  never  over- 
come it." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Lizzy,  "  that  is  all  imagination ;  a  be- 
lief without  reason,  but  it  cannot  be  so  in  this  case." 

"We  will  leave  this  for  the  present,"  I  said ;  "  and  I  will 
take  more  particular  notice  of  the  Doctor  the  next  time. 
If  you  like  him,  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  also.  But  why  so 
disinterested  ?  why  not  take  the  good  Doctor  yourself,  and 


216 


THE    IRIS. 


then  the  office  and  cottage  will  follow  as  a  life  possession 
for  him  ?" 

"  Why,  don't  yon  know,  my  dear  child,  he  is  not  the 
man  for  me  ?  I  should  bo  the  death  of  so  amiable  a  per- 
sonage in  two  years.  If  I  marry  again,  it  must  be  a  man 
of  boldness  and  spirit.  I  care  not  if  he  have  the  temper  of 
Bonaparte,  if  he  have  his  courage  and  spirit." 

"  And  could  you  endure  like  Josephine  ?  You  forget  the 
broken  vows  and  crushed  hopes." 

A  shade  passed  over  her  countenance  a  moment. 

"  Let  us  not  talk  about  marriage  now,"  said  she. 

"  Agreed,"  I  replied.  "  I  must  study,  and  bury  all  other 
aspirations  for  the  present  in  my  school." 

The  next  day  the  Doctor  took  possession  of  the  office,  and 
long  rows  of  vials  and  boxes  of  bones  usurped  the  place  of 
law  books  and  deeds.  The  boy  pounded  medicines  in  the 
morning,  and  the  Doctor  played  on  his  flute  at  night. 

He  was  neighbourly,  and  very  attentive  to  both  the 
young  ladies,  evidently  studying  to  make  no  difference  in 
his  attentions.  To  be  sure,  he  talked  most  with  myself,  and 
I  noticed  whenever  an  opportunity  occurred,  Lizzy  would 
direct  the  conversation  to  some  subject  in  which  I  was 
especially  interested.  Every  Wednesday  evening  we  went 
to  a  lecture,  and  he  was  usually  present  to  accompany  the 
family.  The  whole  family  seemed  interested  in  him,  and 
good  old  Mr.  Warner  too,  especially  as  he  now  spoke  of  his 
intention  to  join  the  church.  When  that  event  did  take 
place,  I  found  some  excuse  for  staying  at  home.  The  more 
I  tried  to  overcome  it,  the  stronger  my  aversion  became.  I 
thought  it  must  be  groundless — the  rest  of  the  family  had 


DR.     VANDOnSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     217 


more  oxiJtirionc'O  and  windom  than  myself, — why  then  should 
I  feel  Huch  an  unaccountable  prejudice  towards  an  innocent 
young  gentleman  who  had  done  me  no  harm  ? 

I  deterrnitiud  t<j  overcome  it,  and  most  severely  did  I 
blame  myHelf  for  suspecting  that  any  other  than  holy  mo- 
tives led  to  tills  public  act  of  consecration.  The  next  even- 
ing, when  ho  proposed  to  me  that  we  should  take  a  short 
walk,  I  checrfidly  consented.  As  we  passed  a  large  flour- 
ing mill,  he  said,  "  This,  I  believe,  is  Mr.  Warner's  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  very  valuable  one." 

"  One  of  the  most  so  in  the  region.  The  old  gentleman 
came  to  tliis  country  many  years  ago.  Like  Abraham,  he 
went  forth,  not  knowing  whither  he  went,  and  like  him  has 
he  been  prospered.  He  has  flocks  and  herds,  houses  and 
lands,  and,  what  shall  I  call  those?"  I  asked,  as  a  drove  of 
swine  marke<l  by  him  came  grunting  along  with  their  snub 
noses  in  the  gutter. 

"  Oh,  that  is  but  one  species  of  property,"  he  remarked, 
"  and  has  its  value.  The  good  old  man  seems  to  be  very 
worthy." 

"Worthy!"  I  repeated  to  myself— what  harm  in  that, 
and  yet  I  didn't  like  the  question,  or  rather  the  tone  of  the 
remark. 

"  He  is  one  of  the  excellent  of  the  earth — belonging  to 
that  species  of  salt  which  never  loses  its  savour." 

"  They  suerri  to  be  a  very  affectionate  ftimily,  no  wonder 
they  feel  ahriost  idolatry  for  their  interesting  daughter. 
Did  you  know  her  husband  ?" 


218 


THK    IRIS. 


"  Not  at  all,"  I  replied,  and  by  my  Hilcnce  indicated  that 
I  had  IK)  wirth  to  continue  thin  conversation. 

The  very  next  morninj^  I  had  occasion  to  go  into  the 
privaUi  room  or  study  of  tlie  old  gentleman,  to  deposit  in 
his  Iiands  a  sum  of  money,  the  jjroceeds  of  my  labour,  and 
for  which  lu?  gave  me  good  interest  and  security.  I  found 
the  old  lady  there,  and  as  I  opened  the  door  sho  remarked, 
"Oh  ycM,  husband,  lend  him  freely  if  he  needs;  he  is 
young,  and  a  hundred  dollars  may  aid  him  greatly  now ;  I 
have  pcfrfect  confidence  in  the  Doctor." 

I  hit  my  lip,  for  I  found  myself  inclined  to  smile,  and 
did  not  wish  to  he  observed.  But  the  old  gentleman  re- 
marked the  expression  of  my  face,  and  looking  over  his 
spectactk'H  archly  said,  "  Ay,  ay,  my  little  schoolma'am ! 
and  so  you  don't  think  so  highly  of  the  Doctor  as  the  rest 
of  iis,  or  do  you  sail  under  false;  colours  just  now?" 

"  1  have  no  cause  for  that,"  I  replied,  "  and  if  I  had, 
your  penetration  would  find  it  out;  so  honesty  is  really  my 
best  l»olicy,  for  no  other  reason  than  Ijecause  I  can  have  no 
other." 

"  Well,  time  works  wonders ;  I  only  desire  that  you 
settle  among  us,  and  I  irmst  say,  prudence  would  hardly 
advise  the  Doctor  at  present ;  so  take  good  care  of  yourself 
and  all  will  come  right,"  so  gi  /ing  me  my  receipt  and  a 
kiss  on  the  cheek,  I  left  the  good  couple  in  the  act  of 
counting  out  a  hundred  dollars  for  the  Doctor.  Weeks 
passe<l,  and  Liz/y,  delighted  at  every  new  patient  the  Doc- 
tor had  and  at  the  increasing  reputation  she  thought  he 
was  gaining,  always  had  some  interesting  fact  to  relate  to 
me  when  1  returned  from  scIkk)!  at  i.ight.     At  one  time  he 


DR.    VANDORSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     219 


had  refused  all  pay  from  a  sick  old  woman,  one  of  Lizzy's 
proteges,  whom  he  visited  daily.  At  another  time,  he  had 
spent  half  a  day  in  the  garden  with  her  good  mother, 
budding,  trimming,  and  tying  up  her  bushes ;  again,  he  had 
gone  into  the  field  and  mowed  for  three  hours,  to  help  her 
father,  when  there  was  a  prospect  of  rain.  "  And  wouldn't 
he  make  a  good  husband.  Sissy  dear  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  love,  if  he  was  only  a  little  more  fiery,  like 
Bonaparte,  and  had  the  courage  and  spirit  of  a  hero." 

Lizzy  looked  annoyed.  In  the  mean  time,  common  report 
had,  to  my  great  vexation,  coupled  the  Doctor's  name  with 
mine ;  but  to  attempt  to  stem  the  current  of  village  gossip 
is  like  using  Dame  Partington's  broom  to  sweep  the  sea. 
Firmness  and  patience  are  the  only  salves  for  such  annoy- 
ances. Happily,  a  vacation  of  a  week  occurred,  and  I  was 
to  spend  it  with  one  of  my  pupils. 

On  my  return,  it  was  a  pleasant  summer's  evening,  the 
doors  were  open,  and  the  same  vines  «nd  trees  which  the 
year  before  looked  so  inviting  to  the  little  homesick  girl, 
were  again  loaded  with  blossoms.  The  old  folks  sat  just 
inside  the  door  enjoying  the  mild  air,  and  Lizzy  on  an  otto- 
man, which  stood  on  the  broad  step.  The  Doctor,  with  a 
hideous  black  patch  on  the  side  of  his  foreLead,  and  one 
arm  in  a  sling,  stood  leaning  in  a  picturesque  attitude  by 
her  side.  Lizzy's  eyes  looked  milder  than  I  ever  saw  them 
before,  and  when  she  turned  them  upon  the  Doctor,  there 
was  an  expression  of  interest  and  sympathy  which  I  had 
never  noticed  before.  "  The  victory  is  won,"  I  said  to  my- 
self, and  then,  like  a  shadow  on  my  heart,  came  those  first 
impressions,  which  no  after   acquaintance   had  removed. 


220 


THE    IRIS. 


Mr.  Warner  came  forward  to  welcome  me,  and  wait  upon 
me  into  the  house,  saying  to  the  Doctor,  with  a  smile, 
"  We  will  excuse  all  want  of  gallantry  this  evening." 

"  And  excuse  me,  also,"  he  replied,  "  I  will  do  myself 
the  pleasure  of  calling  on  Miss  Porter  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"  Wh.at  in  the  name  of  wonder  has  happened  ?"  I  said  to 
Lizzy,  who  had  flown  to  my  side  as  the  Doctor  left. 

"  Oh,  it  is  quite  a  story,  I  assure  you ;  but  I  ought  not 
to  tell  you,  for  I  shall  spoil  it  for  the  Doctor  to-morrow. 
He  tells  it  so  well ;  you'll  find  that  your  stammering  St. 
Paul  can  speak  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel  sometimes." 

But  my  curiosity  would  not  allow  me  to  wait :  and  in 
truth,  neither  would  Lizzy's  enthusiasm  permit  her  to  do 
the  same;  so  she  gave  the  outlines,  promising  that  the 
Doctor  should  fill  them  up  in  the  morning. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,"  she  commenced,  "  the  Doctor 
has  been  robbed  and  shot  at,  and" — 

"  Shot  at,  and  then  robbed,  Sis,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  There,  I  knew  I  should  spoil  the  story." 

"  Never  mind,  do  go  on,"  I  said,  "  where,  pray  ?" 

"  Why,  on  the  turnpike  road  to  McConnelsville ;  don't 
you  remember  a  piece  of  woods  there  ?" 

"  Why,  yes ;  but  honest  black  Gassoway's  house  is  near 
about  half  way  as  you  pass  the  woods.  I  came  from  there 
on  horseback,  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  only  two 
weeks  ago." 

"  You  must  never  go  there  again,  my  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Warner,  in  a  sort  of  sepulchral  tone ;  "  it  may  be  the  death 
of  you." 

"Just  as  the  Doctor  came  to  where  the  woods  com- 


Un.    VANDORSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     221 


mciuu'd,  two  horrible-looking  ruffianH  with  miiHkH  crtmc 
out  of  tho  woods,  and  while  one  hieizod  the  hf>rse'.s  hridle, 
th(*  other  pointed  a  pistol  to  his  heart,  and  demanded  his 
money.  lie  had  two  hundred  dollars  hy  him,  Aviiich  he 
was  then  taking  to  a  man  he  owed.  It  was  all  the  spare 
mon(!y  Ik;  had;  you  know  the  Doctor  is  just  connneneing 
his  profession,  and  he  does  not  wish  to  urge  his  debtors  too 
hard  at  jjresent.  But  he  was  too  brave  to  yield  at  once ; 
h<}  knocked  the  pistol  aside,  but  it  went  ofl',  grazing  his 
arm ;  but  after  a  hard  fight  with  his  opponents,  he  found 
they  were  too  much  for  him,  and  after  resigning  all  his 
money  he  came  back  home.  Isn't  it  too  bad,  so  industrious 
and  prud(nit  as  he  seems  to  bo  ?" 

"  Jt  is  a  hard  case  surely;  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot 
imagine  liow  robbers  dared  come  so  near  the  town ;  the 
pistol-shot  must  have  been  heard  at  Gassoway's." 

"  No,  it  was  midnight,  and  they  were  sound  asleep,  pro- 
bably.    I  wish  they  had  heard  and  gone  in  pursuit." 

TIk!  next  day  was  Sunday,  and,  as  usual,  I  went  to 
jneeting  in  the  evening.  Lizzy  complained  of  slight  indis- 
position, and  did  not  accompany  us;  but  when  we  returned 
we  found  the  two  invalids  together,  and  one  at  least  looking 
very  agreeable,  though  Lizzy's  face  expressed  embarrass- 
ment whenever  Biie  caught  my  eye. 

The  next  morning  the  good  old  lady  called  me  into  her 
room  a  little  while  before  the  hour  of  schooi,  r«,nd,  bidding 
me  sit  down  by  her  side,  said  affectionately,  but  seriously, 

"  My  child,  do  you  love  the  Doctor?" 

Though  not  naturally  mirthful,  I  could  scarce  refrain 


^ 


I 


222 


THE    IRIS. 


from  laughing  in  the  old  lady's  face.     Respect  forbade,  and 
I  answered,  with  all  the  seriousness  I  couhl  Comnumd, 

"  Dear  Aunty,  because  you  and  Lizzy  wished  it,  I  have 
tried  hard  to  do  so;  but  I  do  not  love  him,  and  I  am  con- 
vinced I  never  can." 

The  good  woman  looked  relieved,  and  said,  "I  am  glad 
it  is  so;  you  are  far  away  from  home  and  friends,  and  I 
should  be  sorry  to  have  you  in  trouble  while  with  us. 
Come  to  me  at  all  times  with  your  sorrows,  and  I  will  try 
and  be  a  mother  to  you." 

The  smiles  were  now  exchanged  for  tears.  What  in  the 
world  does  any  one  wish  to  cry  for,  when  they  are  grateful  ? 
But  some  seem  to  have  that  unfortunate  propensity. 

*'  I  was  only  to  add,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  that  the  Doctor 
loves  Lizzy;  and  I  feared,"  she  said,  "it  might  make  one 
heart  sad.    We  fancied  you  felt  more  interest  in  the  Doc* 
than  you  are  willing  to  acknowledge." 

"  I  now  give  you  a  solemn  promise,"  I  said,  and  it  was 
sealed  with  a  kiss,  "  that  I  will  always  speak  the  truth  to 
yourself" 

This  conversation  only  gave  me  new  cause  for  regret.  I 
could  not  see  my  dear  Lizzy  married  to  the  Doctor,  so  long 
as  I  was  unable  to  shake  off  my  own  dislike  to  him,  and 
my  own  mouth  was  fettered  by  the  suspicions  concerning 
myself.  For  two  days  I  was  pondering  in  my  own  mind 
what  could  be  done ;  and  learning  that  Mr.  Warner  would 
permit  no  engagement  to  take  place  at  present,  concluded 
that  time  and  patience  would  bring  all  right. 

Thus  I  mused,  with  my  book  open,  but  my  mind  wan- 
dering, when  Lizzy  burst  into  the  room. 


f 


DR.    VANDORSEN    AND    THE    YOUNG    WIDOW.     223 

"Heigh-ho!  my  little  hypocrite,  you  never  can  keep  a 
secret,  you  say.  Is  that  the  truth  ?"  And  she  held  a  card 
towards  me. 

"  I  never  had  any  secrets  to  keep,  Lizzy,  so  I  don't  know 
how  much  strength  I  possess." 

"Well  here,  then— *  Joseph  Dushey,  St.  Louis,  Mo.'  " 

"Upon  my  word,  Lizzy,  I  know  no  more  about  this 
gentleman  than  yourself.     Does  he  wish  to  see  me?" 

"  That  he  does,  and  is  waiting  your  ladyship's  presence 
in  the  parlour." 

"  Some  business  relating  to  the  school,"  I  said.  "  I  must 
not  keep  him  waiting." 

So  to  the  parlour  I  went,  and  soon  found  myself  in  the 
presence  of  a  gentleman  upon  whom  nature  had  put  her 
unmistakeable  sign  of  nobility.  His  address  and  manner 
were  those  of  one  accustomed  to  refined  society,  and  his 
ease  and  suavity  quite  overcame  my  own  timidity.  But, 
after  a  few  minutes'  general  conversation,  it  was  his  tuni 
to  become  embarrassed;  and,  after  apologizing  for  inter- 
ference in  my  private  affairs,  he  said  that,  hearing  that  an 
engagement  of  marriage  existed  between  myself  and  Dr. 
Vandorsen,  he  had  felt  it  his  duty  to  expose  the  character 
of  the  Doctor.  It  was  painful,  but  it  seemed  to  him  an  act 
of  justice  and  mercy.  He  then  related  the  history  of  this 
adventurer — a  reckless  swindler,  ingratiating  himself  into 
the  favour  of  others,  and  then  repaying  kindness  with  black 
ingratitude.  "I  have  often,"  he  said,  "from  regard  to  his 
father,  helped  him  to  money.  He  is  owing  me  now;  and, 
learning  that  I  was  in  the  vicinity,  he  invented  the  account 
of  the  sham  robbery,  which  he  says  took  place  on  Saturday 


ii.|il9i|IUIu,.|iil.lfP|IM(i|t 


224 


THE    IRIS. 


evening 


He  then  placed  in  ray  hands  the  papers  contain- 
ing proofs  of  that  which  he  had  asserted,  and  again,  with 
much  delicacy,  apologized  for  his  intrusion. 

I  thanked  him  most  sincerely  for  what  he  had  done,  and 
assuring  him  that  no  such  engagement  existed  between  us, 
yet  these  papers  were  valuable  as  guarding  against  future 
trouble  for  others. 

He  allowed  me  to  retain  them.  On  going  to  my  room  I 
sat  down  and  examined  them  carefully,  and  blessed  God 
that  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  save  Lizzy  from  a  dreadful 
sacrifice.  I  laid  them  aside,  determined  to  place  them  in 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Warner  in  the  morning. 

When  morning  came,  the  Doctor's  office  was  found  de- 
serted ;  the  key  hung  upon  the  outside,  his  valuables  were 
removed,  and  from  that  time  to  this  I  have  heard  nothing 
from  Dr.  Vandorsen,  nor  has  my  good  mother  Warner  or 
her  fiimily.  Neither  have  the  two  hundred  dollars,  which 
they  at  different  times  loaned  him,  ever  been  returned. 

Lizzy  is  most  delightfidly  situated,  and  I  know  of  but 
one  drawback  to  her  perfect  happiness,  viz.,  that  her  hus- 
band is  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  men,  never  allowing  his 
temper  to  conquer  his  reason,  and  never  likely  to  allow 
ambition  to  overpower  the  deep  affection  he  bears  his  wife. 


A   CENOTAPH. 


AUGUST,  1776. 


U  Y     K  B  A  H  T  i;  >;     W.     K  M-  S  W  O  R  T  11 . 


"It  *»<  II  lii/lii.n  of  tliii  Biicifntii,  thiit  If  o:;.)  iM-rinlmd  nt  w«,  or  whore  hix  brxjy  could  not  b«  fouml, 
the  only  WMy  to  propiire  rcponi!  for  him  wnn  to  tmllj  nn  empty  tomb,  and  by  certain  rites  and  iiivo 
(•uttentt,  t'lili  lilfl  dplrlt  to  tli«  habitation  prcparBd  for  It." 

KsCIIKMlURG. 


I, 


The  memory  of  Nathan  Hale, 
Who,  in  the  days  of  strife, 

For  freedom  of  our  native  land, 
Laid  down  hin  noble  life. 

Lord  Howe,  Cornwallis,  Percy  earl 
Were  come  in  wide  array, 

And  from  Long  Island  to  New  York 
Had  pushed  our  guns  away. 


Our  Father  looked  across  the  Sound, 

Disaster  groan* -i  behind. 
And  many  dubious,  anxious  thoughts 

Were  labouring  in  his  mind. 


JHJiv  ii.ppii.i 


226  THE    IRIS. 

"  Knowlton,"  said  lie,  "  I  need  a  man, 
Such  as  is  hard  to  meet, 
A  trusty,  brave,  and  loyal  man. 
And  skilful  in  deceit. 

"  The  British,  now  in  Brooklyn  lodged, 
May  divers  plans  pursue : 
Find  me  a  man  to  go  and  spy 
What  Howe  intends  to  do." 

Said  Knowlton,  "  Sir,  I  make  no  doubt 

Many  apt  men  have  we." 
He  went.     At  nightfall  he  returned 
\         With  Hale  in  company. 


2. 

"  Young  friend,"  said  Washington  to  Hale, 
"  It  much  imports  to  know 
What  mirchief  Howe  is  brooding  on; 
Which  way  intends  to  go. 

"  But  though  you  might,  with  help  of  Grace, 
Unmask  his  schemes  of  ill, 
I  will  not  risk  your  generous  blood 
Without  your  perfect  will." 

"Grave  Sir,"  said  Hale,  "  1  left  my  home. 
Not  for  the  love  of  strife. 
But  for  my  country's  cause  resolved. 
Knowing  1  risked  my  life. 


A    CENOTAPH. 

"  Between  my  duty  and  my  will, 
In  service  light  or  sore, 
It  is  not  now  for  me  to  choose, 
For  that  was  done  before. 

"  Let  not  your  Excellency  poise 
What  may  to  me  ensue  j 
But  weigh  the  service  to  be  done, 
And  judge  my  power  to  do." 

''  Well  said ;  then  briefly  thus  : — Put  on 
Some  other  self-disguise — 
And  b}'  to-morrow  morning  be 
Among  our  enemies. 


227 


'•  Go  safely  curious  how  you  will, 
And  spy  whate'er  you  may. 
Of  how  their  troops  have  borne  the  bruise 
They  gave  us  y  4erday. 

*•  And  deeper  else— our  chief  concern. 
And  study  at  this  hour — 
Find  if  their  guns  are  hither  aimed : 
Or,  with  divided  power, 

"  Cleft  from  the  rearward  of  their  force. 

While  we  stand  here  attent ; 

Or  farther  south,  or  farther  north. 

They  mean  to  make  descent. 
16 


""^^miPiPiiPinp 


■n\  iv>"^nFni"P'!K^P!ff^"^ 


228 


THE    IRIS. 


''  Brooklyn  to  them  is  vantage-ground. 
Find  what  you  can.     To  know 
The  mischief  in  a  foeman's  thought 
Is  half  to  foil  a  foe. 

•'  The  moon  goes  down" — "  By  nine,"  said  Halo. 

Said  Knowlton  :  "  Nay,  at  ten." 
''  Can  you  be  off  so  soon  as  that  ?" 
"  I  hardly  think  by  then  : 

"  Nor  would — for  let  me  plead  that  I, 
Herein,  may  yield  my  breath ; 
And  mine  affairs  I  would  devise 
As  if  before  my  death. 

'•  God  knows  what  hearts  may  crack  tor  this. 
But  failure,  or  no  fail, 
To-morrow  morning  I'll  be  there. 
As  I  am  Nathan  Hale." 

''  Bravely,  my  boy !     Such  soul  as  this 
Is  better  than  a  host. 
To  dare  is  little,  if  to  dare 
Unmindful  of  the  cost." 


The  night  was  broadly  overcast, 
And  the  scant  moon  and  stars. 

From  the  dim  dungeons  of  the  clouds, 
Looked  through  their  iron  bars. 


i»,w  ifftm*:twifwww<'w 


A    CENOTAPH. 

"  My  worthy  lad,"  said  Washington, 

"  We  seek  without  despair. 
Although  we  find,  in  all  yon  arch. 

No  sign  of  morning  there." 

"  And  know  whose  gracious  hand  it  is 
That  times  the  darkest  sky," 

Said  Hale.     "  Adieu !"  said  Washington, 
"  God  keep  you, — go, — good-bye  !" 


220 


IL 


The  flitting  Hours,  with  golden  brands 
Once  more  adorned  with  flame. 

Beheld  our  land  in  busy  act. 
Where  war  was  all  the  game. 

Out  of  his  cups  of  deep  carouse. 
That  reeled  till  morning  shine, 

Tlie  Provost  of  the  Lion  camp 
Came  forth  the  tented  line. 

An  ugly  man, — a  tiger  soul. 
Lodged  in  a  human  house, — 

With  whiskey  fuming  from  his  hide, 
And  hair  about  his  brows. 

And  Hale  had  hid  his  skiflf,  and  now 

Was  coming  by  the  shore. 
Thinking  of  many  serious  things 

He  never  thought  before. 


230  THE  IRIS. 

He  mused  of  all  the  hard  assays 
Of  this  our  mortal  state ; 

The  bitter  bruise,  and  bloody  blows 
Of  Virtue  matched  with  Fate. 

He  heard  the  larks  and  robins  sing, 
And  tears  came  in  his  eyes. 

To  think  how  man,  and  man  alone. 
Was  cast  from  Paradise. 


2. 
''  Well  Hodge,  how's  turnips  ?     What's  in  this  ?" 

"  Now  who  be  you  ?"  said  Hale, 
"  I  aint  no  Hodge, — taint  turnips, — stop, — 
Let  go, — this  here's  for  sale." 

"  Powder  and  grog !  be  quiet,  lad. 
Tobacco !  by  my  soul ! 
Rebel,  we've  come  to  take  the  land, — 
Hands  off! — I  seize  the  whole." 


The  Provost  wheeled  towards  the  camp. 
Hale  followed  with  a  cry  : 
"  Give  me  my  pack — now — come — ^you  sir !" 
"  Clod-shoes,  get  home ! — not  I." 

But  epaulettes  were  on  the  road, — 

The  trick  was  getting  worse. 
The  Provost  dumped  the  pack  aside. 

With  a  substantial  curse. 


A    CENOTAPH. 


231 


"  Wa'al,  mister,  that's  the  han'some  thing ! 
That  are  tobakcr's  prime. 
I  knowed  you  didn't  mean  to  grab, — 
1  knowed  it  all  the  time. 

"  I'm  p;oin'  to  peddle,  up  to  camp, 
And  if  you  only  would 
Cio  HiiackH,  and  help  me  sell,  you  might, 
(/'ome,  I  should  say  you  could." 

"  Yorky,  pick  up  your  pack,  hook  on, 
Hook  on,  we'll  make  it  even." 
Tfie  lines  were  passed,  the  countersign, — 
"  Whither  away," — was  given. 

"  I  see,"  said  Hale,  within  himself, 
"  Tliis  man's  internal  shape, — 
The  Devil  can  do  a  gracious  turn, 
Tu  shy  a  graceless  scrape." 


3. 

Gay  was  the  camp  with  liveried  men ; 

Some  trimmed  the  gun  and  blade. 
Homo  (diatted  in  the  morning  sun. 

Homo  slept  ahmg  the  shade. 

And  some  bore  out  the  soldier  dead 

On  his  luifollowed  bier — 
The  soldier  dead,  the  hapless  dead, 

Who  died  without  a  tear. 


232 


THE    IBIS. 


So  lately  wopt  from  England's  shore, 

And  winged  with  prayers  afar, 
To  feel  the  piercing  thunder-shock, 

Gored  by  the  horns  of  War. 

4. 

Cried  Hale,  "Who  buys?  who  buys?  who  buys? 

Hearts!    Boys!    My  lads!    Hooraw! 
Thrippence  a  junk,  Britannia  rule — 

Don't  any  of  you  chaw?" 

And  all  the  while  his  wily  eye 

Was  taking  curious  notes 
Of  men,  and  anus,  and  sheeted  carts, 

And  guns  with  stoppered  throats. 

"Boys,  what  you  goin'  to  doin'  on? 

Hello! — this  way  tluvt  beer. 
You  goin'  to  captivate  New  York? 

Pine-sliillin'  piece — look  here — " 

"Sing  us  a  song."     "'Bout  what?"  said  Hale. 

"Sing  us  'All  in  the  Doons' — 
'Britannia  Rule' — 'God  save  the  King'" — 

Said  Hale,  "Don't  know  the  tunes." 


Cornwallis  now  came  walking  by, — 
"TheCapting,  hey?"     "It  is." 

Hale  folded  up  an  ample  slice : 
"D'ye  s'pose  he'd  'xcept  of  this?" 


A    CENOTAPH. 

Mad  with  the  thought,  to  see  the  clown 
Break  his  own  pate  with  fun, 

••  Do  it,"  said  they.     Said  Hale,  "  I  will." 
"Jerry's  respects" — 'twas  done. 

And  back  he  came  with  open  grin ; 

"Took  it  like  ile!"  said  he. 
•'  I  swow !  I  done  the  handsome  thing — 

He  done  it,  too,  to  me." 

III. 


233 


Sins  are  like  waters  in  a  gap ; 

Like  flames  to  leap  a  check ; 
If  cable  Conscience  crack  a  strand, 

A  man  may  go  to  wreck. 

Sins  never  shut  the  doors  of  hearts 
That  give  good  cheer  to  sin, 
lit  always  leave  them  open  wide, 
For  others  to  come  in. 

Disdaining  ours,  for  England's  camp. 

There  lurked  a  man  about, 
Who,  flushed  with  shame  and  rage  of  heart, 

Like  Judas,  had  gone  out. 

He  left  us,  and  he  swore  revenge. 

And  vengeance  did  not  fail. 
The  courteous  fiend,  who  led  his  steps, 

Conducted  him  to  Hale — 


234 


THE    i?TS. 


His  kinsman — one  whose  generous  hand. 

Impelled  hy  bold  desire, 
Had  saved  him  once,  and  still  endured 

The  seal  of  it  in  fire. 

He  met  him  coming  from  the  camp ; 

He  saw — he  knew  the  hand — 
He  saw  the  whole — and  in  the  road 

He  made  a  sudden  stand. 

"Hum!  ha! — It's  Captain  Hale,  I  think. 

Nathan,  how  do  you  do? 
Sorry  I  am  to  sec  you  here — 

Sorry  I  am  for  you." 

Off  from  the  sudden  heart  of  Hale 

All  his  disguises  fell : 
''  Cousin !  good  God ! — go  back  with  me. 

And  all  shall  yet  be  well." 

•'It  cannot  be.     You  came  to  dare, 
And  you  must  take  the  rod." 

Said  Hale,  "This  hand,  at  Judgment  day 
Will  fan  the  wrath  of  God." 


''  Speak  not  of  God,"  the  traitor  said ; 

"A  good  French  faith  have  I — 
•No  man  hath  seen  Him,'  Scripture  saith. 

And  '  all  is  vanity.'  " 


A    CENOTAI'H. 

Halo,  finding  how  the  scoundrel  leurcd 

Nor  Cod's  nor  man's  award, 
Looked  for  a  handy  stick  or  stone. 

To  (|uickcn  his  regard. 

But,  tiger-soon,  the  renegade 
Had  gripped  his  arms  around: 

"Ah,  ha! — yes,  yes — help!  help!"  he  cried. 
And  crushed  him  to  the  groinid. 

2. 
Fettered  on  straw,  with  soldier  giuirds, 

The  tent-lamp  trembling  low, 
The  morrow  was  his  day  of  doom, 

That  night  a  night  of  woe. 

And  half  the  night  the  gallows  sound 

Of  hammers  filled  his  ears. 
Like  strokes  upon  v  passing-bell. 

Telling  his  numbered  years. 

Ilis  numbered  years — alas!  how  brief! 

And  Memory  searched  them  back. 
Like  one  who  searches,  with  a  ligiit, 

Upon  a  midnight  track. 


235 


The  fields,  the  woods,  the  humming  school, 

The  idly-pondered  lore. 
And  the  fair-fingered  girl  that  sharcid 

His  dinner  at  the  doorj 


23C 


THE    IRIS. 


His  room,  l)cncatli  tlio  liomc«tGa(l  eaves, 

Wherein  he  laid  his  head ; 
His  mother,  come  to  take  the  light. 

And  sec  him  warm  in  bed. 

These,  and  their  like,  distinct  and  bright, 
Came  back,  and  lired  his  hrain 

With  visions,  all  whose  sweetness  now 
Was  but  exalted  pain. 

IV. 

1. 
Ere  silence  droops  her  tluttering  wing. 

The  pang  may  all  be  past ; 
And  oft,  of  good  men's  latter  hours. 

The  easiest  is  their  last. 


The  morn  was  up,  the  flickering  morn 

Of  summer,  towards  the  fall. 
"  Bravely  is  all,"  the  guardsman  said ; 

Said  Hale,  "God's  grace  is  all." 

And  now  the  Provost-Marshal  came 

With  soldiers — all  was  ripe ; 
But  out  of  Halo's  tobacco,  first, 

He  filled  and  smoked  a  pipe. 

Forth  passed  the  man,  through  all  disguise, 

With  look  so  sweet  and  high ; 
He  showed  no  sort  of  dread,  at  all. 

Of  what  it  was  to  die. 


A    CENOTAPH. 


237 


(vome  to  the  cart,  wIiohc  doleful  plaiikn 

IJencath  his  I'eet  did  creak, 
He  Ijowed,  and  looked  about,  and  stood 

In  attitude  lo  speak. 

••  Holloa!  hoa!  diiimmer,  bring  your  drum, 

Play  Yankee  Doodle  here — 
Play,  while  we  crack  the  rebel's  nock." 

Earl  Percy  then  drew  near  : 

•'  Provost,"  said  he,  "  I  shame  at  this. 

Let  the  lad  have  his  say. 
Or  you  shall  find  who  rules  the  camp  ;" 

And  so  he  walked  away. 


"  Soldiers,"  said  Ilale,  "you  see  a  man 
Whom  Death  must  have  and  keep; 

And  things  there  are,  if  I  should  think, 
1  could  not  help  but  weep. 

•'  But  since  in  darkness,  evermore, 

God's  providences  hide. 
The  bravely  good,  in  every  age. 

By  faith  have  bravely  died. 


•'  That  man  who  scorns  his  present  case, 

For  glorious  things  to  be, 
I  hold  that  in  his  scorn  he  shows 

His  soul's  nobility. 


238 


THE    IRIS. 


i 


"  Though  George  the  Third  completely  scourge 

Our  groaning  lives  away, 
It  cannot,  shall  not  be  in  vain 

That  I  stand  here  to-day. 

•'  Oh  take  the  wings  of  noble  thought ! 

Run  out  the  shapes  of  Time, 
To  where  these  clouds  shall  lift,  nor  leave 

A  stain  upon  the  clime. 

•'  Behold  the  crown  of  ages  gone, 

Sublime  and  self-possessed ; 
In  empire  of  the  floods  and  shores 

None  so  completely  blest. 

"  This  land  shall  come  to  vast  estate, 

In  freedom  vastly  grow. 
And  I  shall  have  a  name  to  live, 

Who  helped  to  build  it  so. 

•'  Ye  patriots,  true  and  sorely  tried. 

When  the  dark  days  assail, 
I  seem  to  see  what  tears  ye  shed. 

At  thought  of  Nathan  Hale. 

•'  Where  is  that  man  among  ye  all, 

Who  come  to  see  me  die. 
That  would  not  glory  in  his  soul. 

If  he  had  done  as  I  ? 


•'  Judge,  then,  how  I  have  wrecked  my  life. 


And  in  what  cause  begun. 


A    CENOTAPH. 


239 


I  Horrow  l)ut  in  one  regret, 
That  I  c.iu  loHe  but  one. 

"  In  Thee,  O  Clirist !  I  now  repose — 

Thou  art  my  All  to  me ; 
And  unto  Thee,  thou  Triune  God — 

Oh  make  my  country  free !" 

Then  turning  to  a  guard,  who  wept 

Like  sudden  April  rain, 
And  Hcattercd  from  his  generous  eyes 

The  drops  of  holy  pain. 

"'  Unto  your  honest  tears  I  trust 

Those  letters  to  convey." 
Then,  to  the  Provost-Marshal,  Hale 

Did  mildly  turn,  and  say  : 

''  Before  from  underneath  my  feet 

The  latal  cart  is  gone, 
1  lain  would  hear  the  chaplain  pray ; 

8ir  Provost  have  you  none  ?" 

As  when  a  dreadful  lion  roams 
The  torrid  sands,  and  sees 

A  fawn  among  the  valleys  driidc, 
IJeneath  the  tuneful  trees ; 


If,  'chance,  he  sees  the  tender  hind 
Just  move  behind  an  oak, 


240 


THE   litis. 


He  snaps  his  tootli,  and  snaps  his  tail, 
And  makes  the  <U;surt  smoke. 

So,  when  the  Provost  witnessed  Hale 

To  softer  hands  convey 
His  parting  love,  and  lu^ard  him  ask 

To  hear  the  chaplain  pDiy, 

He  jumped  like  mad,  lie  danced  about, 
Did  dance,  and  roar,  Jind  swear — 

The  furies  in  his  funnu^e  eyes, 
And  in  his  rampant  hair. 

"Dog  of  a  thief!  ere  you  shall  have 
Priest,  book,  or  passing-bell, 

Your  rebel  hide  siiall  rot  in  air. 
Your  soul  shall  roast  in  hell !" 

"God's  will  be  done!"  said  Nathan  Hale 
"Farewell  to  life  and  light!" 

They  pulled  the  clolli  about  his  eyes, 
And  the  slack  cord  was  tiuht. 


V. 


1. 


Once  more  the  rack,  jdong  the  Sound. 

Curled  U)  the  mounting  sun, 
That  kissed,  with  mercy's  beams,  a  world 

Where  such  strange  things  are  done. 


A    CENOTAPH. 


241 


Along  our  lines  the  sentry  walked ; 

The  dew  was  on  his  hair; 
He  felt  the  night  in  every  limb, 

But  kept  his  station  there ; 

And  watched  the  shimmering  spite«|,  and  saw 

The  swallows  slide  away; 
When,  o'er  the  fields,  there  came  a  man,. 

Rough,  and  in  rough  array. 

"  Holla,  you  Yankee  scout !"  said  he, 
"  They've  caught  your  Captain  Hale, 

And  choked  him  for  a  traitor  spy. 
Dead  as  a  dead  door-nail. 

"  Run — use  your  rebel  soldier  legs — 

Tell  General  Washington. 
Don't  wait — you'll  be  promoted  for 't — 

I'll  stand  and  hold  your  gun." 

Out  spake  the  guard — "You  British  crow. 

Curse  on  your  croaking  head ! 
Move  off,  or  else,  I  swear,  you'll  get 

The  cartridge  and  the  lead." 


2. 


Full  of  his  news,  the  sentry  soon 
To  Knowlton  told  the  same. 

Knowlton,  with  tears  in  either  eye, 
To  the  head-quarters  came, 


iiRwimi^wj" 


242 


THE    THIS. 


And  told  to  (icnenil  Wa.sliiiigton 

Poor  Hale's  unhappy  case. 
Nought  answered  he,  but  bowed  awhile. 

With  hands  upon  his  face. 

Then  rising,  s'teadfast  and  serene, 
The  same  great  master  still — 

Curbing  a  noble  sorrow  down 
With  a  more  noble  will — 


I 


"  Bring  me,"  said  ho,  "  my  writing-desk. 
And  maps  last  night  begun ; 

Send  hither  Putnam,  Lee,  and  Greene, 
For  much  is  to  be  done." 

So  perished  Nathan  Hale.     God  grant 

Us  not  to  die  as  he; 
But,  for  the  glorious  Sti'ipes  and  Stars, 

Such  iron  loyalty. 


ii 


Note. — Nathan  Ilalc  was  a  native  of  tlio  town  of  Coventry,  in  Connecti- 
cut ;  and  graduated  at  Yale  College,  in  177o.  He  entered  the  army  of  the 
Revolution  at  an  early  period,  as  a  captain  in  a  light  infantry  regiment, 
under  command  of  Colonel  Knowlton.  After  the  defeat  of  the  27th  August. 
177(»,  and  the  retreat  of  the  Americans  from  Long  Island,  Washington  be- 
came exceedingly  desirous  to  gain  some  information  respecting  the  future 
operations  of  the  enemy,  and  applied  to  Colonel  Knowlton,  through  whom 
Hule  was  introduced,  and  volunteered  his  services. 

He  disguised  himself,  crossed  to  Long  Island,  procured  admission  to  the 
British  camp,  obtained  the  information  desired,  and  was  about  leaving  the 
Island,  when  a  refugee  and  a  relative  recognised,  and  betrayed  him. 

The  case  was  clear.    Hale  confessed;  and  Sir  William  Howe  ordered  him 


A    CENOTAPH. 


243 


hung  the  next  morning.  He  suffered  like  a  patriot  and  a  Christian.  "  I 
lament,"  said  he,  "  that  I  have  but  one  life  to  lose  for  my  country."  The 
provost-marshal,  who  superintended  the  execution,  was  a  savage-hearted  man, 
and  refused  him  the  attendance  of  a  clergyman,  and  the  use  of  a  Bible, 
and  destroyed  letters  which  he  had  written  to  his  mother,  and  other  friends, 
making  the  remark,  that  "the  rebels  should  not  know  that  they  had  a  man 
in  their  army  who  could  die  with  so  much  firmness." 

An  aged  physician,  recently  deceased,  was  accustomed  to  relate  an  anec- 
dote that  is  worthy  of  preservation.  The  Doctor,  when  a  small  boy, 
attended  a  school  taught  by  Hale  in  the  town  of  East  Windsor,  Connecticut. 
One  day  Hale  was  standing  at  his  desk,  in  a  deep  study,  when  certain  wide- 
awake boys  began  to  take  advantage  of  his  inattention. 

The  narrator  thereupon  went  softly  to  his  side,  touched  him,  and  pointed 
to  the  scene  of  mischief.  Hale,  without  turning  his  head,  dropped  a  look* 
upon  the  little  informer — a  mild  look,  but  full  of  rebuke, — "  Go  back  to 
your  seat,"  said  he.  The  boy  slunk  away,  and  neither  misunderstood  nor 
forgot  this  rebuke  of  the  ungenerous  and  disloyal,  from  his  true-hearted 
teacher  J  and  associated  as  the  incident  became  with  the  subsequent  fate  of 
Hale,  it  made  a  deep, and  affecting  impression  upon  his  memory. 

*  The  Doctor  described  Hale  as  having  had  remarkably  fine  and  expressive  blue 
eyes. 


16 


i..iiii;iiiiiv.|uifi^F«np7 


THE  DREAMER. 


BY    MARY   E.    HEWITT. 


Si 


Last  night  he  kissed  me, — kissed  me  in  my  dream ! 

He  unto  whom  I  with  pure  flame  aspire, — 
His  eyes  poured  down  on  mine  love's  kindling  beam, — 

Through  all  my  being  ran  the  immortal  fire, 

I  felt  cold  doubt  within  my  breast  expire, — 
I  felt  his  clasp,  as  gently  he  enwound  me ; 
I  felt  his  heart  beat,  as  he  closer  bound  me  ; 

He  kissed  me !  measure  of  my  soul's  desire ; 
He  kissed  my  down-drooped  eyelids, — kissed  my  brow ; 

Felt  he  no  thrill,  my  well  beloved  one. 
While  passed  the  vision  that  enchains  me  now  ? 

Ah,  no !  the  ecstasy  was  mine  alone ; 
And,  while  the  memory  on  my  spirit  lies, 
I  fear,  lest  he  should  read  my  dream  within  my  eyes. 


v; 


<^lll 

K  t  uC^K 

HtflXil 

1 

}/Mi 

wM 

JiSkjm 

(m 

^m 

'••)L'' W 

ml      1 

11 

A, 


"  I 


i'i«p" — I  1 1» 


J^I^WWH'I  ■       »H r 


'■^"' 


^im 


WHITE  MOON  AND  FIERY  MAN. 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  FALLS  OF  ST.  ANTHONY. 


BY  MRS.    MARY    EAHTMAN 


CHAPTER   I. 


The  glowing  noonday's  sun  was  resting  over  the  rocks 
that  hiy  and  the  waters  that  dashed  in  the  region  of  St. 
Anthony's  Falls.  The  long  row  of  hills  in  the  distance 
was  tinged  with  gold,  which  mixed  gaudily  with  their 
purple  hues.  The  dark  green  of  the  trees  that  grew  on 
the  opposite  shore  interposed  between  the  brightness  of  the 
hills  beyond  and  the  white  glare  of  the  foaming  waters. 

Above  the  Falls,  large  trees  lay  fixed  in  the  river,  not- 
withstanding the  efforts  the  waves  appeared  to  be  making 
to  remove  every  obstacle  that  lay  in  their  way,  which  led 
to  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  where  they  threw  themselves 
into  the  abyss  below. 

Large  and  small  fragments  of  rocks  dotted  the  water  in 
every  direction,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  Falls  lay  a  number 
of  rocks  reposing  against  each  other,  with  rich,  luxuriant 
shrubs  and  trees  rising  from  among  them. 

Notwithstanding  the  noise  of  the  falling  waters,  and  the 
roaring  of  the  boiling  waves  below,  there  was  great  beauty 
mingled  with  the  grandeur  of  the  scene.     The  width  of  the 


246 


THE    IRIS. 


river  at  this  point  made  the  height  of  the  Falls  appear  less 
than  it  really  was.  The  association  connected  with  the 
death  of  Wenona,*  the  injured,  but  loving  wife,  gave  a 
romantic  cast  to  the  red  man's  thoughts,  as  he  rested  from 
the  toils  of  the  chase  near  this  beautiful  scene.  He  could 
identify  the  very  spot  where  she  raised  her  arms,  while  the 
notes  of  her  death-song  pealed  above  all  other  sounds,  as 
her  slight  canoe  bent  towards  her  child's  and  her  own 
grave.  He  marvelled  that  the  boiling  of  the  waters  did 
not  appal  her,  or  that  the  voice  of  her  husband  did  not 
rouse  her  from  her  fatal  purpose. 

But  now  there  is  no  person  near,  to  take  from  the  soli- 
tary beauty  of  the  scene.  If  the  screaming  of  the  loon 
were  heard,  it  was  immediately  followed  by  the  flapping  of 
her  wings,  as  she  passed  to  the  spirit  lakes,  over  whose 
quiet  surface  she  loved  better  to  rest.  The  deer  were  all 
far  distant ; — the  shade  of  the  forest  trees  was  more  accept- 
able now  than  the  rays  of  the  summer's  sun.  Whatever 
might  be  the  burden  of  the  song  of  the  waters,  it  was  un- 
heard, save  by  the  spirits  that  are  ever  assembled  in  num- 
bers around  this  hallowed  spot. 

When  the  intense  heat  had  passed  away,  a  fresh,  invigo- 
rating wind  was  felt  among  the  rocks  and  waves.  Evening 
was  unfolding  her  mantle,  and  her  breath  was  playing  over 
the  bright  flowers  that  even  here  enjoy  their  short  season 

*  The  story  of  Wenona  is  given  in  "  Dacota,  or  Legends  of  the  Sioux," 
in  almost  the  words  of  the  Sioux  themselves.  It  has  been  often  told  by 
travellers,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but  it  actually  occurred.  [N.  B.  This  tra- 
dition, as  given  in  a  letter  from  Miss  Bremer  to  myself,  during  her  visit  to 
the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony,  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  this  story. — J.  S.  H.] 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


247 


of  life.  The  flitting  clouds  were  gathering  towards  the 
horizon,  constantly  changing  their  hues,  and  resting  in 
golden  lines  above  the  hills.  Large  fish,  the  bass,  and  the 
pike,  moved  at  their  ease  in  the  restless  waters,  as  if  there 
were  no  fear  of  being  bearded  in  this  their  stronghold. 
The  beautiful  red  deer,  too,  has  been  tempted  to  come  and 
be  refreshed, — ever  on  their  guard,  though,  as  might  be  seen 
by  the  tossing  of  their  heads  when  the  winds  rose  and  whis- 
pered over  the  earth. 

Now  they  start  and  flee  like  lightning,  for  the  light 
sound  of  woman's  step  is  heard ;  and  in  the  very  spot  where 
one  of  them  rested,  looking  over  the  waves,  stands  a  slight 
figure,  bearing  in  her  face  and  form  the  marks  of  youth, 
while  her  short  and  richly  embroidered  skirt,  and  the 
crimson  okendokenda,  that  partly  covered  her  arms  and 
chest,  showed  her  to  belong  to  a  family  at  least  not  unim- 
portant among  her  people. 

She  stood  still  for  some  moments  in  a  listening  attitude, 
her  face  pale,  and  every  feature  fixed  in  intense  thought. 
She  carried  a  bundle  of  small  size :  this  she  seemed  to 
think  of  value,  for  she  grasped  it  as  if  her  life  depended  on 
the  preservation  of  what  it  contained. 

Turning  towards  the  course  of  the  rocks  by  the  river's 
edge,  she  surveyed  their  way;  then,  bending  where  she 
stood,  she  looked  unappalled  at  the  waters  becoming  dark 
by  the  shadows  of  evening. 

There  was  but  little  current  where  she  stood,  for  the 
position  of  the  rocks  prevented  this,  though  quite  near  them 
the  impetuous  stream  hurried  on  like  one  tired  of  existence, 


248 


THE    IRIS. 


eager  only  to  reach  and  be  lost  in  the  great  ocean  of  forget- 
fulness. 

There  was  evidently  some  great  difficulty  in  her  position, 
for  her  colour  flushed  and  left  her,  and  she  pressed  her 
hands  across  her  bosom,  without  quelling  its  tumult :  yet  it 
was  equally  evident  her  object  was  self-preservation.  Life 
was  dear  to  the  youpg  and  active  blood  that  animated  her 
veins.  There  was  too  much  brightness  in  the  depths  of 
those  dark  eyes  to  be  quenched  by  death.  She  looked  all 
around  her ;  and  well  might  she  have  asked  if  the  red  man's 
heaven  boasted  a  more  beautiful  picture  than  the  one  now 
before  her. 

The  sound  of  voices  has  recalled  her  from  her  medita- 
tions. Loud,  stern  voices,  speaking  in  tones  of  anger  and 
disappointment.  They  were  not  yet  very  near,  but  she 
knew  them  well.  The  language  was  her  own,  but  the  lips 
that  spoke  it  were  threatening  death  to  her.  She  recog- 
nised his  voice — her  husband's — he  was  the  pursuer.  And 
she  smiled  a  bitter  smile  as  she  listened  to  the  harsh  sounds. 
Notwithstanding  the  perils  that  surrounded  her,  she  was  as 
calm  as  when  she  sat  by  her  mother's  door,  in  the  far-off 
home  of  the  Indians,  who  live  by  "  Le  Lac  qui  Parle."  All 
her  terror,  all  her  restlessness  was  forgotten.  She  raised 
her  arm  to  its  greatest  height,  and  elev.iting  her  lithe  frame 
too,  she  threw  her  bundle  as  far  as  her  strength  enabled 
her;  listening  till  the  voices  sounded  nearer,  and  the  steps 
could  be  distinguished  in  the  dead  leaves  that  lay  in  their 
path,  she  swayed  her  form  to  and  fro,  and  sprung,  laughing 
as  she  did  so,  from  the  rocks.  Then  swimming  round  them, 
disappeared,  concealed  by  the  overhanging  precipices,  as 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


249 


well  an  by  the  thick  foliage  that  grew  close  to  the  water's 
edge. 

Hardly  was  she  out  of  sight  when  her  place  was  again 
occnipied.  A  large,  fierce-looking  Sioux  stood  where  she 
had  Ijccn  standing.  He  looked  round  as  if  the  object  of  his 
search  might  be  hid  among  the  rocks  and  bushes.  The 
waters  laughed  just  as  she  had,  as  he  complained  of  fatigue 
and  dJHttppointment.  He  looked  like  a  fiend  who  had  forced 
hunself  where  but  a  moment  ago  some  gentle  spirit  had  been 
renting.  The  passions  in  their  prime  worked  in  his  haughty 
face.  Stripes  of  different-coloured  paint  lay  across  his  cheeks 
and  around  his  eyes.  His  broad  chest  and  brawny  arms 
were  uncovered — he  raised  his  hand,  and  moving  it  in  a 
half  circle,  as  he  turned  towards  his  companions,  "I  have 
looked  for  her  until  I  am  tired,"  he  said ;  "  perhaps  she  has 
killed  herself;  if  she  is  living,  my  vengeance  shall  yet  reach 
her, — I  will  tear  her  heart  from  her  breast." 

Then  turning,  wearied  and  angered  beyond  endurance, 
he  strode  back  towards  his  home.  His  giant  figure  rose  far 
above  his  companions.  His  eye  flashed  like  the  lion's  de- 
priv'-d  of  his  })rey.  Well  might  they  call  him  the  Fiery 
Man. 


C  II  A  V  T  K  U     I  I. 


We  must  go  back  two  days  Ijefore  this  incident  occurred. 
In  a  large  wigwam  were  two  ])ersons.  The  one,  a  young, 
palo  woman,  seated  on  a  mat.  The  white  lips  and  the 
bl)i(!k  shadows  beneath  the  eyes,  told  of  watehings  and  de- 
sjHiir.    No  tear  moistened  the  colourless  eyelids,  no  sigh  re- 


260 


THE    IKIS. 


lieved  the  overburdened  heart.      Still  as  death  itself,  the 
young  mother  gazed  on  the  urjcouHcicus  cause  of  her  agony. 

There  it  lay,  peaceful  aud  (lalw,  against  her  throbbing 
heart.  There  it  lay,  as  it  way  wont,  when  seated  on  the 
high  rocks  by  the  Mississipi)!,  it  heard  the  sweet  tones  of  a 
mother's  voice.  There  it  lay,  never  to  hear  even  them 
again. 

Absorbed  in  her  grief,  the  mother  knew  not  that  there 
was  another  in  the  wigwaui.  She  was  recalling,  as  she 
gazed  on  the  crushed  flower  thus  rudely  torn  from  her  love, 
the  many  and  strange  chaugeM  of  the  past  year.  She  had 
once  looked  forward  to  the  future,  as  the  young  always  do. 
She  loved  and  wa^  prouiiwed  to  the  one  she  loved. 

Fiery  Man  came  from  alar,  with  his  powerful,  athletic 
frame,  and  his  deep  and  })iei'{'iiig  cyeH,  iind  his  voice  so  low 
and  solemn.  He  stopped  ut  Jicr  father's  village,  returning 
from  a  successful  expedition  ngiiiuHt  the  Sacs;  and  he  was 
full  of  proud  boastings,  lie;  said  he  was  "a  great  warrior, 
and  hunter  too,  for  his  lodge*  was  always  full  of  game;  that 
he  had  taken  more  scalps  thiiu  niiy  brave  of  his  band ;  that 
when  he  held  his  enemies,  they  were  like  children  in  his 
large  hand." 

In  an  evil  hour  his  ayo  fell  upon  White  Moon.  He  loved 
her  because  she  was  the  opposite  of  himself.  He  fancied 
the  gentle  and  submissive  way  in  which  she  received  the 
directions  of  her  parents.  Win  >i  he  saw  her  eyes  droop 
and  her  cheek  mantle  when  the  warriors  danced — when  he 
watched  her  and  niiirktul  fhiii  she  only  looked  at  one — 
when  he  incjuircd,  am)  IciinuMJ  that  to  that  one  was  she 
destined,  then  did  he  jiuuk  her  for  his  own ;  he  was  as 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


251 


: 


cool  and  determined  as  if  he  had  been  aiming  his  arrow  at 
the  frightened  grouse ;  as  sure  of  his  prey  as  if  the  bird  lay 
already  bleeding  at  his  feet. 

He  went  to  her  mother,  and  showed  her  the  rich  crimson 
cloth  he  had  received  from  the  traders  on  his  way. 

Other  presents  he  laid  before  her,  very  valuable  then ; 
for  traders  were  just  coming  in  the  country,  and  articles 
for  use  or  adorning  were  rare  among  the  Sioux. 

The  mother  told  him  her  child  was  promised, — that 
White  Moon  loved  the  noble  young  Avarrior  she  was  to 
marry,  and  she  could  not  break  her  daughter's  heart. 

The  father  came  in,  and  Fiery  Man  showed  him  his  new 
gun, — they  were  scarce  then,  and  were  deemed  wakun 
(supernatural).  Fiery  Man  enlarged  upon  its  merits,  and 
he  pressed  on  the  foolish  old  man  the  advantages  of  secur- 
ing him  as  a  friend,  by  giving  him  his  daughter  in  marriage. 

White  Moon's  mother  interfered,  saying,  "  her  daughter 
was  a  good  girl,  and  deserved  to  be  happy.  She  was  not 
like  the  other  girls,  always  running  away  to  look  among 
the  rocks  in  the  water  for  young  beavers;  but  she  was 
steady  and  industrious,  and  should  make  herself  happy  by 
marrying  the  man  she  loved." 

Fiery  Man  stamped,  and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  with 
rage.  He  showed  the  parents  his  medicine-bag ;  he  would 
make  them  know  what  it  was  to  refuse  a  medicine-man; 
he  would  charm  them ;  he  would  dry  up  the  red  rivers  of 
life ;  he  would  make  their  steps  feeble. 

xVlready  would  White  Moim  have  trembled,  had  she 
been  present. 

Fiery  Man  saw  bis  advantage,  and  continued  :  he  was 


-^iiil.«^npH<9ip«iRifr.««   I'Jiv  yj^t-  "i*jPH^Hin.'i*^^»'-'»w'^""»^m^w"i'i'  i 


252 


THE    IRIS. 


the  friend  of  Chat-o-tee-dah,  the  forest  god,  and  he  could 
go  where  no  other  Indian  could,  protected  by  this  powerful 
friend.  He  was  strong  and  brave,  and  it  was  well  for  the 
woman  who  married  him,  and  for  her  family  too. 

The  old  man  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  gun.  Fiery 
Man  told  him  to  follow  him ;  he  did  so,  but  could  hardly 
keep  pace  with  the  strides  of  the  tall  warrior.  Fiery  Man 
led  him  towards  the  lowlands,  where,  among  the  trees,  the 
woodcock  were  in  numbers.  They  seated  themselves  on  a 
mound,  the  work  of  their  more  enlightened  ancestors ;  they 
were  quiet  at  first,  only  listening  to  the  passing  of  the  birds 
through  the  low  trees. 

Fiery  Man  pointed  the  gun,  and  fired ;  the  birds  fell  to 
the  ground.  The  old  man  laughed,  and  Fiery  Man  showed 
him  the  powder  and  shot. 

He  took  the  gun  and  explained  to  his  companion  the 
mode  of  preparing  it  to  fire.  "  Ha !"  said  ho,  "  you  cannot 
shoot  as  well  as  I ;  but  try  and  bring  down  one."  The  old 
man  pointed,  and  fired;  his  aim  was  sure :  again  a  bird  fell 
before  his  astonished  gaze. 

"  It  is  yours,  said  Fiery  Man,  and  the  girl  is  mine.  We 
will  go  back  and  tell  her  mother  what  we  have  agreed 
upon." 

Again  he  led  the  way,  and  the  old  man  followed  him 
back  to  the  wigwam.  There  they  found  mother  and 
daughter.  There  were  tears  upon  the  cheek  of  the  latter ; 
she  was  soon  to  know  how  vainly  they  were  shed.  She 
turned  away  from  the  gaze  of  her  tall  lover,  and  hid  her 
face  against  her  mother's  bosom. 

*'  Tell  her,"  said  Fiery  Man  to  White  Moon's  father ;  but 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


253 


the  old  man  knew  of  the  bitter  dregs  he  would  stir  up  in 
the  fountain  of  life  before  him  :  he  could  not  find  words  to 
tell  the  young  maiden  her  doom. 

Fiery  Man  could  not  brook  the  delay.  He  laid  his 
brawny  hand  on  the  young  head  that  had  not  yet  been 
lifted  frori  its  refuge-place.  "  She  is  mine,"  he  said  to  the 
mother;  "I  have  bought  her.  That  wakun  gun  is  her 
father's,  that  red  cloth  is  yours.  White  Moon  must  go 
with  me  to  my  lodge :  she  must  give  me  warriors  like 
myself  for  sons.  She  will  be  obedient  and  happ}^,  because 
her  husband  is  powerful,  and  feared." 

White  Moon  raised  her  head  and  looked  in  his  ftice ;  for 
hope  ?  as  well  might  she  have  asked  it  in  the  glancing  of 
the  tomahawk  of  a  Chippeway. 

That  dark,  stern  face  was  softened,  it  is  true :  but  it  was 
from  the  contemplation  of  her  attractive  features ;  pride 
was  changed  to  satisfaction :  but  it  was  because  he  knew 
that  the  graceful  figure  which  clnng  to  her  mother  for 
protection  would  soon  lean  only  on  him.  She  sighed  and 
turned  away  her  face ;  she  tremljled  and  sank  upon  the  mat 
with  weakness ;  no  hope — all  her  bright  visions  changed  : 
darkness  and  gloom  had  come  where  day  had  presided  in 
all  her  brightness. 

A  short  time  saw  Fiery  Man  lead  to  his  wigwam  his  sad 
young  wife,  wearied  to  death  with  her  long  journey.  Could 
love  have  consoled  her,  she  had  been  happy :  for  she  was  as 
dear  as  life  to  the  heart  of  the  passionate,  overbearing  man. 
As  he  led  her  into  the  wigwam,  he  pointed  to  its  present 
occupant.  He  said  she  was  his  sister,  but  the  first  glance 
did  the  f<ame.     There  was  the  tall,  gaunt  figure ;  the  fierce, 


I 


264 


TUE    IRIS. 


flashing  eye ;  the  passionate,  commanding  countenance ;  but 
far  more  repelling  in  her  than  in  him.  White  Moon  read 
her  own  fate ;  she  was  to  endure  hatred  as  well  as  love. 
She  could  see  no  shelter  from  the  storm  that  was  settling 
over  her  head. 


CHAPTER    III. 


The  sister  of  Fiery  Man  stood  unnoticed,  we  have  said, 
in  the  lodge  where  White  Moon  sat  with  her  dead  child. 
On  her  back  si:e  carried  a  large  bundle  of  wood.  As  she 
threw  it  to  the  ground,  the  noise  roused  White  Moon  from 
her  dreams.  She  rose  from  her  mat,  clasping  the  child  yet 
more  closely  to  her  breast.  Giving  one  look  towards  her 
sister,  in  which  w%is  concentrated  all  the  passion  and  all 
the  harshness  of  which  she  w  as  capable,  she  left  the  lodge. 
The  crimson  flush  soon  died  away  from  her  face,  and  she 
was  calm  and  pale  as  before. 

Assisted  by  several  of  the  women,  she  proceeded  to  place 
her  child  upon  its  last  resting-place.  It  was  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  lodge,  yet  in  sight.  She  returned,  and 
carried  to  the  place  of  burial  the  cradle  and  some  little 
trinkets  belonging  to  the  child,  and  hung  them  in  reach  of 
the  infant's  hand,  on  the  scaffolding. 

All  day  she  sat  on  the  ground  near  it.  She  wept  there, 
as  only  a  mother  can  Aveep,  for  her  first  and  only  cliild. 
She  refused  the  food  the  women  offered  her;  she  had  not 
eaten  since  its  death. 

Even  when  night  came,  she  was  still  there,  through  its 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


255 


long  watclicH  giving  vent  to  her  violent  grief.  The  break- 
ing of  th(!  morn  found  her  sleeping  for  a  short  interval  on 
the  ground ;  on  awakening,  she  remembered  there  were 
dutieH  that  Htill  claimed  her  care.  Her  new  buffalo-skin 
lodge  waH  Htill  unfinished,  and  she  had  promised  her  hus- 
band mIic  would  Ije  in  it  on  her  return.  The  one  they  were 
living  in  waw  her  sister's;  it  was  an  old  one,  torn,  and  ad- 
mitting the  rain,  so  that  it  was  not  comfortable.  Some  of 
the  women  had  assisted  her  in  making  it,  and  she  had  still 
to  finish  and  set  it  up  before  the  evening. 

On  the  day  of  the  child's  death  she  had  been  obliged  to 
leave  iier  work,  to  go  out  at  some  little  distance  to  cut 
wood.  She  did  not,  as  usual,  take  her  child  with  her :  it 
was  asU.'ep  in  its  carved  board  cradle,  and  she  left  it  in 
charge  of  a  girl,  the  child  of  one  of  her  friends.  Fiery 
Man's  sister  had  gone  out,  telling  White  Moon  she  should 
be  away  all  day.  So  great  was  her  dread  of  this  proud 
woman — so  fearful  was  she  that  she  would  revenge  on  her 
child  the  hatred  she  felt  towards  herself — that  otherwise 
she  would  not  have  left  the  infant  at  home. 

The  anticipations  of  White  Moon  at  her  first  interview 
with  her  husband's  sister  were  all  realized.  This  woman 
possessed  all  the  bad  qualities  of  Fiery  Man,  without  any 
of  his  redet^ming  ones. 

She  had  been  married,  and  was  a  widow.  Both  of  her 
children  were  dead :  there  was  no  avenue  by  which  kind- 
ness could  find  its  way  to  her  heart.  She  disliked  White 
Moon,  because  she  had  so  won  her  brother's  love.  But 
there  needed  to  assign  no  reason,  for  she  disliked  all  who 
were  better  off  thai.  she. 


256 


THE    IRIS. 


It  iH  not  only  in  civilized  life  that  the  dread  passion  of 
envy  hns  full  »way :  the  human  heart,  the  same  by  nature, 
varicH  only  by  aHsociation  and  circumstance. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  unhappy  disposition  of  Fiery 
Man'n  sister,  White  Moon  had  been  happy.  She  could  not 
but  be  proud  of  her  husband,  and  of  his  affection  for  her: 
it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  a  Sioux  woman  to  see  unmoved 
the  many  trophies  of  his  skill  and  bravery.  But  the  curse 
of  envy  was  about  her;  and  when  White  Moon  smiled  over 
her  boy,  and  Fiery  Man  exulted  in  the  pride  and  affection 
of  a  Sioux  father  for  his  son,  his  sister  could  not  rejoice 
with  them — she  envied  and  hated  them. 

Fiery  Man  ext?cted  the  most  implicit  obedience  from  his 
wife,  and  from  all  around  him.  He  would  not  have  brooked 
the  slightest  contradiction  from  her;  but  she  did  not 
attempt  it. 

In  most  cases  an  Indian  wife  is  little  more  than  a  serving- 
woman  to  her  husband.  To  this  White  Moon  was  accus- 
tomed from  observation,  and  from  her  short  experience. 
She  trembled  at  her  husliund's  voice,  though  against  her 
it  had  never  !)een  raised  in  Jinger.  But  the  violent  passions, 
the  abusive  language,  the  frequent  blows — these,  coming 
from  one  who  ought  to  have  no  power  over  her,  made  her 
often  wish  for  death.  Yet  so  great  was  the  likeness  of 
brother  and  sister,  that  she  bowed  to  the  tyranny  of  the 
one,  from  having  done  so  to  the  other.  Her  spirit,  too, 
was  broken.  She  could  easily  submit,  but  not  forget. 
When  she  left  her  child  in  the  wigwam  it  was  quietly 
sleeping;  when  she  returned  it  still  slept.     She  had  been  a 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


257 


long  time  away,  and  yet  the  rest  of  the  infant  appeared  to 
have  been  unbroken. 

She  missed  the  girl  who  had  promised  to  remain  with 
the  child.  She  had  brought  a  heavy  burden  of  wood  to 
her  lodge,  and  she  sat  down  by  the  child  to  rest,  and  to 
watch  its  awakening. 

Its  unusual  paleness  alarmed  her;  she  held  her  own 
breath  that  she  might  distinguish  the  breathing  of  the 
child,  but  in  vain.  She  placed  her  hand  before  its  parted 
lips ;  the  warm  breath  of  infancy  did  not  play  upon  it. 

She  thought  it  strange ;  but  death  did  not  present  itself 
to  her  mind.  Going  to  the  door  of  the  lodge,  she  looked 
around,  and  saw  her  sister  gazing,  with  fixed  attention, 
towards  the  wigwam.  This  alarmed  her,  and  she  returned 
to  her  child ;  again  she  listened  for  its  breath  :  she  pressed 
its  small  and  clammy  hand.  Then  did  the  real  truth  flash 
across  her.  She  took  in  her  arms  the  infant  and  rushed 
with  it  into  the  open  air. 

As  she  stood  outside  calling  for  help,  the  Indians  col- 
lected around  her.  Her  sister,  calm  and  unconcerned, 
approached  with  them  and  looked  on. 

The  Indian  doctors  were  there,  and  White  Moon,  under 
their  direction,  carried  her  child  back  to  the  lodge.  She 
placed  it  on  a  buflfalo-robe,  which  was  folded  on  the  floor. 
Red  Head,  the  great  medicine-man,  seated  himself  near  it. 
He  held  the  sacred  rattle,  shaking  it,  and  chaunting  in  a 
loud  voice.  He  shouted  to  the  women  to  stand  offj  for 
near  him,  on  the  ground,  he  had  laid  his  pipe  and  medi- 
cine-bag. 

White  Moon  alternately  wept  and  hoped ;  she  knew  Red 


258 


THE    IRIS. 


Head  was  a  powerful  medicine-man :  but  still  her  baby 
showed  no  signs  of  life.  Despairing,  at  last,  and  frantic 
with  grief,  she  broke  in  upon  his  incantations.  She  raised 
her  child,  and  placed  its  little  face  against  her  breast.  She 
knew  this  test  would  be  decisive. 

There  was  no  motion,  on  its  part,  to  receive  the  offered 
sustenance.  She  raised  her  despairing  eyes,  and  they  met 
the  cold  glances  of  her  sister.  Then  she  told  Red  Head 
there  was  no  hope.  She  asked  to  be  left  alone  with  her 
dead ;  she  wept  until  the  power  of  weeping  was  gone  :  and 
then,  until  the  time  was  come  to  place  it  in  its  cradle  grave, 
she  held  it  to  her  heart.  She  did  not  dare  reflect  on  the 
passionate  grief  of  the  father,  when  he  should  return,  and 
ask  of  her  his  son. 

She  could  not  rouse  herself  to  say,  what  she  believed  to 
be  the  case,  that  his  sister  had  destroyed  it.  There  was 
no  mark, — no  apparent  cause  for  its  sudden  death. 

On  returning  to  the  wigwam,  after  the  burial  of  the 
child,  she  found  her  sister  there,  more  than  usually  bent 
upon  an  altercation.  She  endeavoured  to  avoid  it  by  em- 
ploying herself  in  silence.  She  eat  for  the  first  time  since 
her  child's  death,  and  then  applied  herself  to  the  task  of 
finishing  her  lodge.  Her  bereaved  condition  might  have 
excited  the  pity  of  her  companion;  but  there  was  no 
sympathy  in  that  breast.  For  a  time,  White  Moon  would 
not  reply  to  her  taunts.  This  the  more  enraged  the  other, 
who  at  length  charged  the  heart-broken  mother  with  the 
murder  of  her  child ! 

White  Moon  heard  her  in  stupified  horror  and  amaze- 
ment.   That  t  >  mother  could  destroy  her  infant, — no  such 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIEIIY    .MAN. 


259 


Hentimcnt  could  reach  her  understanding  or  her  heart.  Yet 
ttgani  and  again  did  her  sister  repeat  the  charge,  dwelHng 
uj)on  the  impossibility  of  the  child's  dying  without  a  cause. 
No  one,  she  said,  had  been  with  the  infant  during  her  ab- 
sence ;  the  young  girl,  who  had  promised  to  take  care  of  it, 
having  gone  off  soon  after  White  Moon  left.  She  then 
iiisiHted,  that  as  White  Moon  had  been  forced  to  marry  her 
brother,  she  had  thus  resented  upon  him  her  wrong.  She 
had  killed  his  child,  forgetting  it  was  her  own. 

Till!  despairing  woman  was  roused  by  a  sense  of  the 
injustice  done  her.  She  saw,  too,  her  position, — the  dan- 
ger in  which  she  stood.  She  felt,  in  anticipation,  the  re- 
proaches, the  hot  anger  of  her  husband. 

She  was  roused  even  to  madness.  Her  many  wrongs 
stood  up  in  witness  against  the  woman  who,  in  her  deep 
sorrow,  thus  goaded  her.  Her  slight  frame  expanded ;  the 
gentle  and  obedient  wife,  the  submissive  woman,  had  be- 
come a  murderer ;  her  knife  lay  in  the  heart  of  her  hus- 
band's sister, — the  strong  had  bowed  before  the  weak  ! 

The  act  was  so  instantaneous,  that  White  Moon  stood 
alone  to  behold  the  consequences  of  her  passion.  It  was 
during  the  hottest  part  of  the  day,  and  their  lodge  stood 
apart  from  the  rest.  Most  of  the  men  were  on  the  hunt 
with  B'iery  Man;  the  women,  some  sleeping  away  the 
sultry  hours,  others  off  at  their  different  employments. 

The  hoarse  groans  of  the  dying  woman  were  not  heard 
outside  the  lodge,  so  that  White  Moon  was  not  detected. 
On  one  of  the  mats  lay  the  embroidered  dress  of  a  young 
warrior  that  Fiery  Man's  sister  had  just  finished.  She 
immediately  determined  upon    making  her   escape,   and 

17 


A# 


^> 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


-1^    12.5 
2.0 


1^  U4 


U    11.6 


Photographk: 

Sciences 

Corporation 


n  \M>!'>T  MAIN  STRUT 

VtliBSTiR.N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4903 


'<e 


i 


260 


THE    IRIS. 


taking  these  clothes  with  her  as  a  disguise.  She  made 
them  into  a  bundle  before  the  eyes  of  the  dying  woman, 
and  resolved  upon  flying  from  her  husband's  resentment. 

How  often  she  had  called  for  death,  yet  how  closely  she 
now  clung  to  life.  The  violent  excitement  through  which 
she  had  passed  had  brought  again  the  colour  to  her  cheek. 
Brightness  had  succeeded  to  the  expression  of  languor  in 
her  eyes.  There  was  no  tie  to  keep  her  in  her  husband's 
home.  She  now  only  thought  of  him  as  the  avenger  of  his 
sister's  blood. 

She  left  the  lodge  without  even  a  glance  towards  the 
cause  of  her  misery  and  her  sin.  She  turned  from  the 
places  which  would  now  know  her  no  more. 


CHAPTER     IV. 


Fiery  Man  and  the  large  party  of  hunters  came  in  sight 
of  their  home  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day.  They  had 
brought  a  large  number  of  buffalo,  and  were  glad  to  reach 
the  vicinity  of  their  village,  where  their  wives  and  other 
women  came  forward  to  relieve  them  of  their  burden. 
Merry  work  it  was  to  them  on  this  occasion,  until  they 
learned  some  of  the  hunters  were  missing. 

Fiery  Man  looked  to  see  his  wife  and  child  among 
them,  and  was  disappointed  and  irritated  at  not  seeing 
them ;  but  he  remembered  White  Moon  was  always  back- 
ward in  joining  these  noisy  parties,  and  thus  he  accounted 
for  her  absence. 

His  tall  figure  was  slightly  clad,  for  the  weather  was 


WHITE    MOON    AND    KIEKY    MAN. 


261 


warm — in  his  right  hand  ha  \ifh\  a  npcar,  and  on  its  top 
was  a  scalp  recently  taken,  lie  ntrode  on  without  waiting 
to  explain  the  occapion  of  ih'in,  only  thinking  of  his  wife  and 
son.  He  did  not  miss  his  HiHtifr,  though  he  might  well  have 
done  so,  for  she  was  always  rcjuly  with  her  strong  arm  to 
assist  the  hunters,  and  her  loud  voice  to  give  directions  to 
the  women. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  confiiMion  as  they  entered  the 
village,  for  the  absence  of  the  three  hunters  had  been  ac- 
counted for,  though  not  by  Fiery  Man,  who  had  passed  for- 
wrrd  towards  his  lodge. 

The  hunters,  enthusiastic  with  their  success,  (for  the  num- 
ber of  buffalo  they  had  killed  was  unusually  great,)  were 
surprised  by  a  party  of  Iroc^uoin,  and  in  the  sudden  terror 
three  of  the  Sioux,  who  hod  laid  down  their  arms,  intend- 
ing to  sleep,  were  killed  and  Hctalped.  These  Iroquois  had 
come  from  a  great  distance;  their  villages  were  in  the 
western  part  of  New  York.  They  were  then  in  the  height 
of  their  power,  and  constantly  |Kjrfonned  exploits  that 
astonished  other  Indian  nations. 

But  that  a  small  party  should  have  travelled  four  hun- 
dred leagues,  living  by  chance,  surrounded  by  their  enemies ; 
that  they  should  venture  among  so  powerful  a  people  with 
such  an  object,  is  indeed  remarkable ;  that  they  should  have 
been  successful,  is  still  more  so. 

They  lost  one  of  their  party.  Fiery  Man  pursued  them, 
with  some  others,  as  they  endeavoured  to  make  their  escape, 
and  killed  one,  whose  scalp  adorned  his  spear. 

The  lamentations  of  the  families  whose  relatives  had  been 
killed,  their  affectionate  but  melaticholy  reception  of  their 


262 


THE    IRIS. 


dead  bodies — :for  they  had  been  wrapped  in  skins  and 
brought  home  —  the  loud  talking  of  those  engaged  in 
caring  for  the  immense  quantities  of  buffalo-meat  and  the 
valuable  skins, — all  these  were  unnoticed  and  indeed  un- 
heard by  Fiery  Man. 

Even  his  stout  heart  quailed  before  the  silent  f.nd  gloomy 
appearance  of  his  lodge.  There  was  not  even  an  evidence 
of  habitation. 

The  lodge  on  which  White  Moon  had  been  engaged  lay 
heaped  up  near  it ;  but  there  was  no  one  there  to  welcome 
him. 

He  threw  up  the  door  and  looked  in ;  then  started  almost 
affrighted  at  what  he  saw.  His  sister  lay  dead — and  the 
only  creature  near  her  was  the  small  dog  that  had  been 
always  by  her  side  during  life.  He  could  not  mistake  the 
horrible  symptoms, — ^the  fallen  jaw,  the  dark-looking  blood, 
the  face  calm  and  composed  in  its  expression,  as  it  never 
had  been  in  life. 

He  turned  again  from  the  lodge  to  seek  his  wife  and 
child, — the  former  with  her  timid  and  almost  fearful  saluta- 
tion, the  latter  with  his  merry  infant  laugh,  as  he  reached 
forth  his  hands  to  be  taken  close  to  his  father's  heart. 

He  looked  around  among  the  groups  talking  here  and 
there.  They  were  gazing  at  him,  with  doubt  and  conster- 
nation in  every  countenance ;  for  who  would  dare  tell  him 
of  all? — ^who  would  expose  himself  to  the  violence  of  his 
wrath? — ^who  but  feared  to  see  that  iron  frame  bowed  with 
the  tale  of  horror  he  must  hear? 

He  hastened  towards  them,  and  shook  Harpstinah  roughly 
by  the  arm.     "Where  is  my  wife? — my  child?     Speak!" 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


2C3 


he  said,  as  the  woman,  in  her  fright,  seemed  to  have  lost 
the  power  of  speech. 

An  old  man,  who  had  not  accompanied  the  hunting 
party,  on  account  of  his  age,  came  forward.  "There  is 
your  son,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  burial-ground.  "  Your 
wife  left  him  asleep,  and  your  sister — " 

Harpstinah,  having  recovered  herself,  interrupted  him : 
he  had  but  a  confused  notion  of  the  state  of  things.  She 
told  Fiery  Man  all  the  circumstances,  even  to  her  going  to 
the  lodge,  drawn  thither  by  the  continual  crying  of  the 
dog,  and  finding  his  sister  there  in  her  death-pangs.  She 
had  tried  to  make  Harpstinah  comprehend  a  message 
to  her  brother,  but  had  expired  with  the  efibrt.  Pre- 
vious to  that  she  had  told  several  persons  that  White  Moon 
had  killed  her  child,  but  no  one  believed  it.  The  affec- 
tionate care  of  the  mother  was  too  well  known ;  besides, 
the  girl  who  had  been  left  in  charge  of  her,  said  the  iiifiint 
had  awakened  a  short  time  after  White  Moon  had  left,  and 
had  then  fallen  asleep  again. 

White  Moon  had  been  seen  as  she  hurried  from  the  vil- 
lage, but  no  one  had  seen  her  return.  Harpstinah  had 
heard  angry  words  passing  between  them,  but  did  not 
know  that  anything  more  serious  had  occurred,  until  some 
time  after,  when  she  entered  the  lodge,  as  she  had  ])efore 
described.  All  presumed  it  must  have  been  tlie  act  of 
White  Moon,  as  she  had  expressed  previously  her  intention 
of  remaining  at  home,  in  order  to  finish  her  lodge. 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  intelligence,  to  which 
Fiery  Man  listened  with  an  ashy  countenance  and  a 
trembling  frame.     His  wife,  whom  he  had  so  loved — \m 


264 


THE    IRIS. 


boy,  the  noble,  healthy  child,  whose  growth  he  had  watched 
day  by  day!  As  he  bent  forward  to  listen,  large  tears 
rested  on  his  cheek.  The  women  moved  off  affrighted  at 
the  spectacle,  that  tears,  such  as  women  shed,  should  be 
seen  there. 

There  was  one  who  still  remained  beside  him.  Fiery 
Man  had  not  heard  the  charge  brought  against  his  wife  of 
the  murder  of  her  child.  So  stricken  was  he,  that  he  only 
heard  and  felt  that  they  were  gone.  The  Fawn  still  re- 
mained beside  him:  she  had  loved  Fiery  Man,  and  had 
hoped  to  be  his  wife.  She  waited  to  speak  when  he  should 
arouse  from  the  first  stupor  of  his  grief.  He  turned  to  go, 
he  knew  not  where ;  he  heard  his  name  called,  and  saw  the 
Fawn  beside  him.  "Your  sister  said  that  White  Moon 
had  never  loved  you,  and  was  now  revenged ;  that  you  had 
torn  her  from  all  she  had  loved;  that  even  her  old  mother 
had  wept,  and  asked  you  to  leave  her  with  her,  but  in 
vain;  and  it  was  for  this  White  Moon  had  killed  your 
child,  that  you  might  have  sorrow  too." 

Then  came  back  the  colour  to  the  bronzed  cheek  of 
Fiery  Man,  and  the  flashing  to  his  eye.  Then  did  he  stand 
erect,  like  one  that  had  never  known  grief — then  did  love 
change  to  bitter  hatred.  The  wife  of  his  bosom  was  his 
worst  enemy.  There  were  no  more  tears,  but  loud  threats 
of  vengeance — no  trembling,  but  firm  purposes  of  revenge. 

He  went  again  to  the  lodge,  to  look  at  his  sister's  body. 
He  left  her,  and  stood  by  the  grave  of  his  .child.  He  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  little  body,  and  stood  thus  while  he 
decided  what  to  do.     He  shouted  for  the  young  men,  and 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


265 


m 


told  them  to  go  and  hunt  for  his  wife,  and  bring  her  back 
to  him. 

It  was  fearful  to  see  the  paroxysms  of  his  hot  anger. 
He  lay  down  on  the  grass  near  his  child ;  he  rested,  but 
not  with  sleep.  He  sought  his  wife  through  the  night,  but 
in  vain.  He  went  into  the  thick  forests ;  he  remembered 
Chat-o-tee-dah,  the  god  of  the  woods,  was  his  friend ;  he 
prayed  to  the  god ;  he  sacrificed  to  the  wakeen-stono ;  but 
still  he  was  unsuccessful. 

He  knew  neither  sleep  nor  rest  until  the  evening  of  the 
next  day,  when  ho  was  forced  to  yield  to  his  overtaxed 
condition.  There  did  he  stand,  by  the  Laughing  Waters, 
where  she  had  stood.  The  White  Moon  was  making  her 
way,  slowly  and  sadly,  but  clinging  to  life — full  of  grief, 
but  fearing  the  avenger — living  on  the  berries  of  the  woods, 
and  sleeping  where  the  red  deer  and  its  young  lie  down  to 
rest. 


CHAPTER     V. 


A  short  time  after  the  events  we  have  noticed,  a  young 
and  slight-looking  Sioux  warrior  entered  one  of  the  villages 
of  that  nation.  He  was  a  stranger  and  alone.  This  was 
enough  to  insure  him  a  hospitable  reception.  On  approach- 
ing the  lodges  which  were  nearest  him,  he  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate as  to  what  course  he  should  pursue  as  regards  making 
himself  known.  In  the  mean  time  his  appearance  had 
attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention. 

His  limbs  were  slight  but  well  formed,  his  figure  de- 
noting agility  rather  than  strength.     His  dress  was  new 


266 


THE    IRIS. 


rnd  handsomely  ornamented ;  his  leggins  were  of  very  fine 
deer-skin,  dressed  so  as  to  be  white  and  soft,  and  these,  as 
well  as  his  coat,  were  richly  embroidered  with  porcupine 
quills.  He  had  no  blanket,  nor  were  there  any  war-eagle 
feathers  in  his  head ;  his  pipe,  made  of  an  earthen  material, 
was  large  and  heavy.  He  was  without  arms  of  any  kind : 
this  was  the  most  remarkable  feature  in  his  appearance. 

He  was  pale,  as  if  he  had  been  ill,  and  there  was  at 
times  an  expression  of  wildness,  almost  amounting  to  fero- 
city, in  his  appearance.  He  advanced  towards  a  lodge 
outside  of  which  stood  the  family ;  they  spoke  to  him  at 
once,  telling  him  to  sit  down  and  rest  himself.  One  of  the 
women  seeing  his  mocassin  was  torn,  untied  it,  saying  she 
would  mend  it. 

Before  asking  him  his  name  or  errand,  they  insisted  upon 
his  eating,  knowing  from  his  features  and  dress  he  was  a 
Sioux. 

His  feet  they  found  blistered  and  inflamed.  The  women 
of  the  lodge  got  some  herbs,  laid  them  in  cold  water,  and 
applied  them  to  the  inflamed  parts. 

They  gave  him  wild  rice,  in  an  earthen  bowl  of  a  kind 
manufactured  by  themselves,  the  art  being  now  lost.  They 
were  then  destitute  of  metallic  vessels  of  any  kind. 

The  young  warrior,  after  he  had  eaten,  proceeded  to  give 
an  account  of  himself.  He  said  he  had  come  a  great  di^^tance 
in  search  of  an  uncle  who  had  suddenly  disappeared  from 
among  them.  He  was  a  very  important  man  among  them, 
famous  for  his  wisdom,  and  for  knowing  all  the  history  of 
their  people,  the  Mendewakantonwau  Dacotas.  He  could 
always  tell  them  the  year  when'  buffalo  would  be  the  most 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


267 


plentiful ;  he  could  direct  them  to  the  very  spot  where  the 
largest  herds  could  be  found. 

His  people,  he  said,  lived  on  the  banks  of  the  Minesota ; 
the  mouth  of  this  river,  his  uncle  said,  lay  immediately 
over  the  centre  of  the  earth,  and  under  the  centre  of  the 
heavens :  the  Great  Spirit  had  ordered  this,  that  they  might 
know  they  were  his  favourite  people,  superior  to  all  other 
nations. 

All  these  things  his  uncle  had  learned  in  dreams ;  and 
often  he  spoke  of  them  lo  the  young  people,  that  they  might 
be  proud  of  their  country,  and  might  remember  who  was 
their  Great  Father  and  friend. 

On  one  occasion  he  had  assembled  the  young  people,  and 
told  them  of  the  bloody  battles  they  had  fought  with  the 
Sacs  and  Foxes  and  other  nations.  Some  of  the  Dacota 
bands  had  been  destroyed  by  them,  but  they  had  been  saved 
because  they  were  under  the  centre  of  the  heavens,  and  the 
eye  of  the  Great  Spirit  was  always  upon  them.  They  knew 
mo^e  too  than  the  other  bands,  and  were  in  consequence 
much  better  off. 

On  that  occasion  he  had  talked  nearly  all  night,  and  after 
that  they  all  retired  to  rest.  On  awaking,  the  old  warrior 
had  disappeared,  and  since  then  had  never  been  seen. 
Whether  Unk-ta-he  had  drawn  him  into  the  deep,  or  Chat- 
o-tee-dah,  the  god  of  the  woods,  had  drawn  him  under  the 
earth,  or  the  Great  Spirit  had  taken  him,  no  one  knew. 
He  was  no  more  among  them. 

The  young  man  went  on  to  say  he  had  had  a  dream,  in 
which  he  was  told  to  array  himself  in  new  clothing,  and  to 
go  in  search  of  his  uncle.    He  was  forbidden  to  take  arms  or 


268 


THE    IRIS. 


provisions  of  any  kind ;  and  in  a  short  time  he  would  have 
an  interview  with  his  uncle.  This  he  had  done  in  spite  of 
the  objections  of  his  friends,  who  urged  him  at  least  to  take 
his  bow  and  arrows,  but  he  had  refused  to  do  so,  preferring 
to  follow  implicitly  the  directions  he  had  received  in  his 
dream.  He  had  been  in  the  woods  a  long  time,  and  was 
almost  despairing,  when  one  night  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep, 
and  his  uncle  stood  before  him ;  not  old  and  wrinkled  and 
time-worn,  as  he  remembered  him,  but  erect  and  firm.  His 
voice  was  strong  too,  and  he  could  have  been  heard  a  long 
way  off,  he  spoke  so  loud  and  distinctly. 

He  said  that  the  Sioux  need  not  any  more  look  for  his 
return,  for  that  in  the  far-off  country  where  he  lived,  he  had 
none  of  those  weaknesses  and  pains  to  contend  with,  which 
are  constantly  among  the  aged  on  earth :  he  had  wanted 
to  try  the  bravery  of  his  young  nephew,  to  see  whether  or 
not  he  would  have  courage  to  do  as  he  was  told.  He  was 
glad  he  had  done  so,  for  now  he  would  be  a  favourite  of  the 
gods,  who  delighted  in  courageous  acts.  He  directed  him 
as  to  what  route  he  should  take,  telling  him  of  everything 
that  would  happen  to  him  on  his  way  to  the  village,  and 
charged  him  to  say  to  them,  that  he  should  be  furnished 
with  a  lance,  bow,  and  arrows,  and  also  have  given  to  him  a 
comrade,  and  be  allowed  to  stay  in  the  band.  The  Indians 
were  overcome  with  admiration  at  the  courage  shown  in 
these  adventures,  and  they  immediately  presented  him  with 
the  arms  he  required,  and  in  every  other  way  gratified  his 
wishes. 

He  accepted  these  things  proudly,  as  a  right,  rather  than 
a  favour ;  this  bearing  made  him  still  more  popular  with  his 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


269 


new  friends.  One  of  them  came  forward  and  told  him  he 
should  have  his  oldest  daughter — pointing  to  the  well- 
pleased  maiden — for  a  wife  :  the  stranger  said  he  had  pro- 
mised his  uncle  he  would  not  marry  until  he  had  killed 
three  Winnebagoes,  and  wore  the  feathers  of  honour  he 
had  thus  earned. 

He  continued  to  grow  in  their  favour,  and  was  prepar- 
ing to  accompany  some  of  their  braves  on  a  war-party, 
when,  one  morning,  a  party  of  Sioux  approached  the  vil- 
lage. One  of  the  men  was  much  taller  and  larger  than  all 
the  rest,  his  eagle  feathers  towering  above  their  heads.  The 
hospitable  people  pressed  forward  to  welcome  them :  and 
when  they  were  rested,  and  had  eaten  and  smoked,  the 
chief  missed  their  stranger  friend.  He  was  not  to  be  seen ; 
when  they  found  he  did  not  return  to  them,  they  told  his 
strange  story  to  Fiery  Man  and  his  band. 

The  wretched  man  knew  it  was  his  -wife  who  had  thus 
baffled  him.  He  went  on  his  way,  but  some  evil  spirit  stood 
between  him  and  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose.  She 
was  not  to  be  given  to  his  vengeance  or  his  love.  There 
was  happiness  yet  in  store  for  White  Moon. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


Chat-o-tee-dah,  the  god  of  the  woods  and  forests,  holds  a 
high  rank  among  the  Sioux ;  by  some  he  is  considered  even 
greater  than  the  Thunder-Bird.  Were  it  not  for  the  great 
number  of  Thunder-Birds,  that  race  would  long  since  have 
been  extinct ;  so  many  battles  have  they  had,  and  so  poAv- 


270 


THE    IRIS. 


erful  is  the  god  whose  home  is  in  the  dark  woods,  whose 
guardians  and  servants  are  every  bird  that  rests  itself  in 
the  branches  of  the  trees,  whose  notes  welcome  the  coming 
of  the  day. 

Chat-o-tee-dah  passes  by  the  shrubbery  of  the  lowlands, 
and  makes  his  home  on  the  largest  tree  on  the  highest 
eminence  of  the  forest ;  his  dwelling  is  in  the  root  of  the 
tree.  He  is  not  confined  to  this  part  of  it,  but  comes  out 
when  occasion  may  require. 

Is  he  hungry  ?  he  takes  his  seat  upon  the  branch  of  the 
tree,  and,  by  his  power  of  attraction,  he  is  soon  surrounded 
by  the  winged  messengers  of  the  forest,  ready  to  do  his 
bidding.  While  he  is  thus  holding  his  court,  the  limb  of 
the  tree  on  which  he  is  seated  becomes  smooth  as  glass. 

Chat-o-tee-dah  and  the  Thunder-Bird,  as  I  have  said,  are 
enemies :  and  many  hard  battles  have  been  fought  between 
them,  the  god  of  the  woods  being  generally  the  victor. 

This  is  to  be  ascribed,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  attach- 
ment and  vigilance  of  hi  body-guard,  the  birds  of  the 
forest. 

At  the  slightest  commotion  in  the  heavens,  whose  stormy 
portents  indicate  the  coming  of  the  Thunder-Bird,  Chat-o- 
tee-dah  is  roused  from  his  sleep,  or  whatever  occupation 
may  engage  him  at  the  lime,  by  his  servants ;  he  has  thus 
ample  time  to  make  his  arrangements. 

While  the  clouds  roll  swiftly  and  angrily  towards  the 
habitation  of  the  water  god,  and  streaked  lightning  plays 
in  vivid  flashes  on  the  earth,  Chat-o-tec-dah  is  coolly 
making  his  preparations  for  the  work  of  death,  assured, 
by  his  very  calmness,  of  victory.     The  little  birds,  hid  in 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


271 


the  (lark  branches  of  the  trees,  are  faithful  sentinels,  mo- 
mentarily making  their  rei3ort,  while  the  god  of  the  woods 
keeps  safely  hid  in  the  root  of  the  tree,  his  stronghold  in 
time  of  danger. 

The  Thunder-Bird  resorts  to  cunning.  He  takes  the 
form  of  a  large  bird,  but  his  disguise  is  always  penetrated 
by  the  smallest  forest-bird;  they  know  him,  and,  like 
faithful  servants,  keep  near  their  lord.  Again  and  again 
the  thunder  rolls,  and  the  lightning  plays  about  the 
branches  of  the  tree.  The  waters  swell  and  rise  up  to 
anger  the  Thunder-Bird,  and  to  t(  mpt  him  to  do  battle, 
but  he  has  too  many  quarrels  to  resent  against  the  forest 
gods,  and  the  day  of  his  ven'^oanco  is  come.  It  is  not 
often  that  he  has  courage  to  tempt  the  forest  god  to  battle, 
for  he  knows  his  power;  but  now  he  will  show  him  his 
own  strength,  when  he  is  roused. 

There  is  a  stillness  of  the  elements,  and  now  again  the 
deafening  sound  is  heard,  and  the  lightning  pierces  the 
home  of  the  forest  god ;  but  Chat-o-tee-dah  is  safe,  for  there 
is  a  communication  with  the  roots  of  the  tree  and  the 
waters,  and  he  passes  through  it  safely,  hearing  the  while 
the  noise  of  the  elements,  while  he  descends  to  the  great 
waters  below. 

Again  the  earth  shakes,  for  the  Thunder-Bird  has  cast 
forth  his  lightning,  and  pierced  the  root  of  the  tree ;  but  he 
is  again  defeated  by  the  cunning  of  the  god,  who  has  found 
a  refuge  in  the  dominions  of  Unk-ta-he. 

But  at  last  the  forest  god  is  angry,  and  he  has  determined 
to  come  forth  from  his  watery  retreat,  and  beard  the  Thun- 
der-Bird with  his  own  veapons.    He  hurls  back  at  him  the 


272 


THE    IRIS. 


lightning  ] — in  an  instant  the  daring  invader  is  dead  at  his 
feet. 

The  battles  of  their  gods  are  unending  themes  of  ad- 
venture among  the  Sioux.  Conversing  upon  them,  the 
hours  are  whiled  away  from  evening  until  midnight,  and 
often  from  midnight  to  morn.  The  intellect  must  have 
occupation.  How  many  a  noble  mind  has  thus  gone  to 
waste ! 

We  may  judge,  from  the  importance  attached  to  these 
fanciful  stories,  how  hard  must  be  the  work  of  the  Indian 
missionary.  What  a  system  of  error  to  uproot!  We  may 
also  look  into  our  own  hearts : — which  is  the  greater  ab- 
surdity, the  worship  of  Chat-o-tee-dah  or  mammon? — the 
bowing  down  to  the  glorious  works  of  the  hand  of  God,  or 
devotions  paid  to  the  gilded  idol  of  this  world  ? 

Fiery  Man  no  more  boasted  of  his  intercourse  with  the 
gods ;  they  seemed  to  have  forgotten  they  were  his  friends. 

He  had  sought  far  and  near  for  his  wife.  At  times  his 
heart  was  full  of  revenge  :  that  she  should  have  destroyed 
his  son  was  the  bitterest  reflection  of  all.  His  sister's  blood 
seemed  still  to  be  flowing  before  him ;  vengeance  was  called 
for  on  her  who  had  made  his  lodge  dark  for  ever.  Then  a 
different  mood  would  affect  him.  She  would  stand  before 
him,  obedient,  docile,  and  timid,  with  her  soft,  fearful  voice, 
so  different  from  the  loud  tones  of  his  sister's.  He  could 
remember  her  so  distinctly,  as  she  held  up  her  child  for 
him  to  see,  as  he  left  the  lodge  to  go  with  the  hunting 
party.  Her  long,  braided  hair,  falling  about  her  shoulders, 
as  her  infant's  cheek  lay  pressed  against  hers.  For  the  first 
time  he  thought  she  looked  sad  at  parting  with  him,  and  he 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


273 


had  treasured  the  thought.  He  knew  then  she  never  raised 
her  hand  against  her  child.  He  would  have  crushed  his 
evil-minded  sister  for  the  suggestion,  had  she  stood  before 
him  in  life.  He  would  sit  buried  in  thought,  the  storms  of 
passion  breaking  away  from  his  heart;  but  this  did  not  last, 
and  woe  to  the  man  who  came  before  him  in  his  fierce 
mood. 

He  died  in  battle;  but  the  Indians  said  he  gave  his  life 
away,  for  he  met  his  enemy  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream,  and 
shouted  no  cry  as  he  was  wont.  They  brought  his  body 
back  and  buried  it  by  the  side  of  his  son :  and  even  death 
did  not  break  the  spell  of  awe  connected  with  him,  for  the 
women  were  afraid  to  sit  and  plait  grass  near  his  grave. 
Harpstinah  moved  her  lodge  from  where  it  stood,  saying, 
she  must  live  farther  off  from  the  graves,  that  she  might 
not  hear  Fiery  Man  in  the  night  calling  for  vengeance  on 
his  wife,  who  had  deserted  him,  and  murdered  his  child. 

No  one  could  tell  the  fate  of  White  Moon.  Her  parents 
died  soon  after  her  disappearance.  But  the  Black  Eagle, 
who  some  years  after  visited  the  Sioux  who  live  among  the 
thousand  isles  at  the  head  of  Rum  River,  said,  that  when 
he  arrived  there.  White  Moon's  old  lover  took  him  to  his 
lodge,  and  that  his  wife  helped  him  off  with  his  snow-shoes, 
and  made  him  broth,  for  he  was  nearly  perished  with  cold 
and  hunger,  having  been  ac  one  time  covered  with  snow 
for  several  days  and  nights,  as  his  only  chance  of  life. 

When  he  told  them  he  had  come  for  some  of  the  stone 
that  lay  on  the  shores  of  that  river,  to  make  knives,  the 
war-chief  asked  him  what  band  he  belonged  to,  and  that 
while  he  was  answering,  the  woman  ceased  her  employ- 


274 


THE    IRIS. 


ment,  listening  intently  to  him.  That  the  war-chief 
asked  him  what  had  become  of  that  tall  chief  called  the 
Fiery  Man ;  and  that  while  he  was  telling  of  his  death, 
and  cf  his  strange  condition  before  it,  the  woman  laughed, 
and  said  that  after  all  Chat-o-tee-dah  had  not  been  as  true 
a  friend  as  the  warrior  thought,  for  a  weak  woman  had 
escaped  from  his  fiercest  anger;  and  that  when  he  asked 
her  if  she  had  ever  known  Fiery  Man,  her  husband  was 
angry,  and  told  her  to  hush,  saying,  women  always  talked 
too  much,  and  that  it  was  time  she  had  done  his  leggins, 
which  he  wanted  to  wear  in  the  morning,  when  he  met 
the  wise  men  of  their  band  in  council ;  that  when  she 
returned  to  her  work,  as  she  was  told,  that  he  was  re- 
minded of  the  quiet  obedience  with  which  White  Moon 
ever  listened  to  the  commands  of  her  husband,  that  tall 
warrior,  Fiery  Man,  who  had  gone  to  that  country  where 
thousands  of  warriors  assemble  and  shout  through  the 
heavens  their  song,  as  they  celebrate  the  medicine  feast. 


NOTE. 

A  Tradition  of  the  Falls  op  St.  Anthony. — There  is  a  little  island, 
just  below  the  Falls,  surrounded  by  their  spray,  with  picturesque  rocks  and 
dark  cedars,  looking  lonely  and  romantic,  more  attractive  than  the  Falls, 
through  its  peculiar  looks,  and  its  story,  connected  with  the  Falls  and  with 
the  people  which  still  hovers  around  them,  on  the  territory  of  Mincsota, 
raising  tents  of  one  night  soon  to  depart,  kindling  fires  soon  to  be  quenched. 
It  is  called  the  Sjnrit  Island,  and  its  tale  is  that  of  many  an  Indian  woman, 
— is  in  fact  the  poetic  truth  of  woman's  fate  among  the  red  men.     It  tells  : 

There  was  once  a  hunter  of  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotas  (or  Sioux)  living 
near  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony.  He  had  but  one  wife,  and  loved  her  and 
was  loved  by  her  so  well,  that  the  union  and  the  happiness  of  the  hunter 


WHITE    MOON    AND    FIERY    MAN. 


275 


and  his  wife,  Ampota  Sampa,  wax  talked  of  among  the  tribe  as  wonderful. 
They  had  two  children,  and  lived  lonely  and  liappy  for  several  years.  But 
aa  he  became  known  as  a  great  ltunt«r,  and  grew  rich,  Hcvcral  fumilica  came 
and  raised  their  tipis  (lodgen)  near  titat  of  the  liafipy  pair.  And  words  and 
whispers  came  to  the  young  man  that  lie  ought  to  have  more  wives,  so  that 
he  might  enjoy  more  happincsH.  Ho  liMt^^ned  to  the  tempters,  and  soon 
made  a  choice  among  the  daught<'rH  of  Win  new  friends,  liut  when  he  had 
to  tell  his  first  wife  thereof,  hin  heart  nmnUi  liitn,  and,  to  make  the  news 
less  painful  to  her,  he  began  by  telling  her  that  he  had  bethought  himself 
that  she  had  too  many  household  <;arex,  and  that  hIio  wanted  somebody  to 
help  her  in  them,  and  so  he  would  bring  her  that  help  in  the  form  of  a 
young  girl,  who  was  to  be  hiH  Hceond  wife, 

Ampota  Sampa  answered  "  No  !"  Hhe  had  not  too  many  cares.  Sho 
was  happy  to  have  them  for  him  and  liix  ehildn-n.  Hhe  prayed  and  be- 
sought him,  by  their  former  love  and  happy  life,  by  every  tender  tic,  by 
the  love  of  their  little  ones,  not  Ut  bring  a  new  love,  a  new  wife,  to  the 
lodge.  He  said  nothing.  But  thiH  Name  night  he  brought  home  to  the 
lodge  his  new  wife. 

Early  next  morning  a  death-song  wax  heard  on  the  waters  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, and  a  canoe  was  seen  gliding  Hwiftlydown  the  rapids,  above  tlie  Falls 
of  St.  Anthony,  and  in  the  canoe  wan  titling  a  young  woman  with  two  little 
children  folded  to  her  bosom.  It  wan  Ampota  Hanipa;  and  in  her  song  she 
told  the  cause  of  her  despair,  of  her  death,  of  her  departure  for  the  spirit- 
land.  So  she  sat,  singing  her  death-Hortg,  Mwiflly  borne  onward  by  the 
rapids  to  the  edge  of  the  rocks.  Her  husband,  her  friends,  heard  her  and 
saw  her,  but  too  late.  In  a  few  momefitw  the  eanoo  was  at  the  top  of  the 
Palls ;  there  it  paused  u  second,  and  then,  borne  oti  by  the  rush  of  the 
waters,  down  it  dashed,  and  the  roaring  wave«  er;vcrcd  the  victims  with 
their  white  foam. 

Their  bodies  were  never  seen  again  j  but  tradition  says  that  on  misty 
mornings,  the  spirit  of  the  Indian  wife,  with  the  ehildren  folded  to  her 
bosom,  is  seen  gliding  in  the  euno<!  through  the  rising  spray  about  the 
Spirit  Island,  and  that  the  sound  of  Uur  death-song  is  heard  moaning  in  the 
wind  and  in  the  roar  of  the  l-'alls  of  Ht,  Anthony,  Such  is  the  legend  of 
the  Indian  wife. — Freduika  liuKMKU, 


THE  RAIN-DROP. 


BT  HISS  E.  V.  BABNES. 


It  quivered  on  a  bended  spray — 
A  rain-drop,  bright  and  clear — 

Though  beautiful,  it  waked  sad  thoughts, 
'Twas  so  like  sorrow's  tear. 

And  on  its  crystal  surface  lay 

Reflected,  calm  as  heaven, 
The  glories  of  the  summer  sky, 

With  purple  tints  of  even ; 

And  earth's  transcendent  loveliness 

Was  also  on  its  breast, 
As  with  her  dev/y  smiles  she  made 

The  parting  sunbeam  blest. 

I  loved  the  rain-drop,  as  it  hung 

So  trustingly  the  while — 
The  verdant  earth,  the  glowing  heaven 

Reflected  in  its  smile. 


A  symbol  seemed  it  to  mine  eye 
Of  the  loving  human  heart. 


THE    BAIN-DROP.  277 

That  lives  but  in  the  smile  of  God, 
Which  earth  and  heaven  impart. 

I  gazed  into  its  tiny  sphere — 

In  miniature  it  lay, 
A  world  of  beauty,  trembling  there. 

And  soon  to  pass  away — 

To  pass  from  earth,  and  leave  no  trace, 

But  the  memory  divine 
Of  beauty,  which,  within  the  heart. 

Erects  its  own  pure  shrine. 

The  breeze  passed  by;  it  swayed  the  bough 

Where  the  sweet  gem  was  hung; 
But,  with  tenacious  grasp,  it  still 

Fondly  and  closely  clung. 

Nor,  till  with  a  resistless  power 

The  mighty  wind  swept  by. 
Did  the  frail  thing,  so  beautiful, 

In  shattered  fragments  lie. 


And  thus,  though  moved  by  every  breeze 

That  sweeps  along  our  way. 
Our  hearts  still  cling  to  life,  and  still 

The  world  asserts  its  sway. 

But,  like  the  rain-drop,  pure  and  clear, 
That  hangs  upon  the  bough. 


278 


THE    IRIS. 


Oh !  soul  of  mine,  give  back  earth's  light, 
Keflect  its  glories,  thou ! 

Give  back  the  summer's  rosy  tints, 
The  verdant  tree,  the  flower; 

Give  back  the  mountain  and  the  mead, 
The  summer  sun  and  shower. 

But  ah!  in  thy  far  deeper  depths 

May  heaven  reflected  lie ; 
Its  holy  calm — its  voiceless  wave. 

Serene  as  yon  soft  sky. 

Unruffled  be  those  silent  depths — 
Calm,  though  the  tempest  lower. 

My  Saviour !  walk  thou  on  the  wave. 
And  let  it  feel  thy  power. 


Speak  to  the  troubled  waters.  Peace, 
And  passion  ne'er  shall  rise, 

Nor  doubt,  nor  care,  to  dim  the  light 
That  greets  me  from  the  skies. 


A  PLEA  FOR  A  CHOICE  PICTURE. 

TO  A  GENTLEMAN  WHO  UNDERVALUED  IT. 

BT    MISS     L.    S.    HALL. 

Nay,  do  not  say  my  favourite  is  tame — 

Her  soul  lies  dreaming  in  its  tranquil  depths, 

And  'tis  not  every  passive  breeze  can  wake 

The  slumberer  from  her  peaceful  reverie. 

The  sheltering  wings  of  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Love 

Are  folded  round  the  temple  of  her  heart. 

Perpetual  guardians  of  its  altar  place ; 

And  they,  of  winged  feet,  who  go  and  come. 

Must  pass  beneath  their  penetrating  gaze  ; 

Unhallowed  sentiments  may  enter  not, — 

Where  these  stand  sentinels,  'tis  hallowed  ground. 


Speak  but  a  thrilling  word,  and  you  shall  meet 
In  those  so  dreamy  eyes,  that  heed  you  not. 
The  shadow  of  your  own  ecstatic  thoughts, — 
Those  lips,  so  passive  now,  shall  echo  back 
The  earnest  tones  of  your  own  eloquence. 
But  do  not  measure  her  internal  strength 
By  any  standard  of  man's  magnitude. 
Nor  think  to  fathom  what  no  eye  can  reach, — 


280  THE    IRIS. 

She  hath  a  woman's  heart,  and  it  hath  been 

The  constant  struggle  of  her  watchful  life, 

To  curb  her  will,  and  bend  her  energies. 

And  train  her  nature  for  her  destiny; 

And  conscious  that  she  hath  a  marshalled  host, 

Obedient  to  the  mandates  of  her  soul. 

She  wears  a  placid  brow,  and  dreads  no  foe. 

A  thoughtless  word  upon  affection's  tongue, 
A  look  of  coldness  from  a  cherished  friend, 
A  hardened  thought,  that  wrongs  her  of  her  due, 
And  makes  her  seem  what  she  would  scorn  to  be, 
Imputing  motives  she  would  blush  to  own, — 
Her  spirit,  safe  from  storms  and  rude  alarms, 
Is  too  susceptible  to  wounds  like  these ; 
But  that  calm  face  will  ne'er  reveal  to  thee, 
Nay,  from  her  dearest  friends  she'll  most  conceal, 
The  bitter  anguish  they  can  measure  not. 


Then  do  not  say  her  tranquil  brow  is  tame. 
A  passive  soul  hath  ne'er  the  dignity 
That  sits,  a  queen,  upon  her  passive  face ; 
'Tis  nobler  far  to  rule  the  spirit  realm. 
Than  gather  laurels  from  the  battle-field. 


LOST  AND  WON. 


BT  OABOLINE   EU8TI8, 


i 


Lost  the  freshness  of  life's  morning ; 

Lost  the  tints  of  rosy  light, 
Which  like  daylight,  perfect  dawning. 

Covered  all  with  glory  bright; 
Lost  the  golden  locks  w^hich  shaded 

Brow  so  smooth,  and  eyes  so  blue, 
And  the  happy  smile  has  faded 

Round  those  lips  of  rosy  hue. 

I  have  lost, — but  I  have  won. 

Lost  the  kind  oblivious  sleeping. 

Which  enshrouds  the  little  child, 
Like  the  holy  angels  keeping 

Saintly  watches, — calm  and  mild. 
Lost  the  dreams  of  sunny  hours, 

Where  no  t»3rror  dare  intrude ; 
Lost  the  dreams  of  love  and  flowers. 

Of  the  beautiful  and  good. 

I  have  lost, — but  I  have  won. 

Lost! — oh,  most  of  all  the  losses ! — 
Lost  the  childlike,  earnest  faith. 

Loving  on  mid  joys  and  crosses, 
Thankful  still  for  all  it  hath. 

I  have  lost  youth's  simple  pleasures, 
Each  departed,  one  by  one  ; 


282 


THE    IRIS. 


But— oh,  blessing  without  measure ! — 
I  have  lost, — but  I  have  won. 

I  have  won,  through  earnest  striving, 

Guerdons  above  all  the  loss, 
Hopes  once  faded,  now  reviving 

Twining  round  the  sacred  Cross : 
Sorrow  pale  hath  been  my  teacher  j 

Hopes  bereft,  my  gentle  friends ; 
Graves  of  the  loved,  my  silent  preacher, 

"Where  dust  with  dust  so  sadly  blends. 
I  have  lost, — but  I  have  won. 

I  have  won,  through  tribulation. 

Title  to  a  heavenly  home. 
Working  out  my  own  salvation 

Through  the  blood  of  Christ  alone. 
Oh,  my  future  brightest  seemeth. 

Eye  of  faith,  exchanged  for  sight, 
With  celestial  splendour  beameth 

On  through  darkness  into  light. 
I  have  lost, — but  I  have  won. 

I  have  won  bright  hopes  immortal 

Of  a  heaven  of  peace  and  rest ; 
E'en  now  I  linger  at  the  portal. 

As  a  kindly  bidden  guest. 
Lost  and  won ! — oh  earth !  oh  heaven ! 

Hark ! — I  list  the  angels'  strain, 
Voices  in  the  silence  even ! 

Small  the  loss,  and  great  the  gain ! 
I  have  lost, — but  I  have  won. 


THE  MISTRUSTED  GUIDE. 


A   WESTERN    SKETCH. 


BY   A   MISSIONARY. 


It  was  the  close  of  a  cloudy  afternoon,  about  sunset,  in 
February,  1818,  and  I  began  to  think  it  high  time  to  seek 
a  lodging-place.  The  prairie — the  first  I  had  seen,  unless 
it  might  have  been  a  patch  of  a  few  acres,  the  day  before — 
was  covered  with  snow;  and,  although  a  good  many  bushes 
grew  on  i,t,  and  it  was  somewhat  "rolling" — I  hope  my 
readers  know  what  that  is — I  confess  its  aspect  was  to  me, 
just  tL  jn,  more  dreary  than  picturesque.  Our  road  is  best 
described  by  the  term  which  designated  it,  "  The  old  Rocky 
Trace,"  by  which  may  be  understood  the  "blazed"  road 
usually  travelled  from  Shawneetown  to  Kaskaskia.  The 
dwellings  were  not  very  numerous — indeed,  we  had  the 
privilege  of  considerable  exercise  in  passing  from  one  to 
another.  Now  and  then  a  block-house,  in  good  condition, 
showed  the  rather  recent  Indian  troubles,  "^hich  had  fre- 
quently compelled  the  inhabitants  to  "fort." 

The  sight  of  a  cabin,  after  a  while,  was  quite  cheering. 
My  wife  was  somewhat  tired  of  carrying  the  babe  all  day, 
and  was  glad  to  see  a  prospect  of  rest  and  shelter.  We 
drove  up,  and  inquired,  as  usual,  if  we  "could  get  to  stay," 


284 


THE    IRIS. 


not  doubting  an  aftirmativo  answer.  And  so  we  had ;  yet 
tiiere  was  difficulty  in  the  case. 

"I'm  afcard,  stranger,  you'll  have  to  go  furder.  Our 
childer's  got  the  hoopin'-cough,  and  maybe  you  nioughtn't 
like  yourn  to  go  whar  it  mought  git  it — 'less  it's  had  it. 
You  may  stop,  ef  you're  a  mind  to  resk  it,  for  I  don't  never 
turn  anybody  away;  but  I  didn't  like  to  let  you  carry  your 
baby  in  without  lettin*  you  know." 

Here  wm  a  difficulty.  We  had  had  the  child  vaccinated 
at  Pittsburg,  on  our  way,  but  had  used  no  precautionary 
measure  against  hooping-cough,  and  in  "  the  dead  of  winter" 
there  was  some  hazard  in  it.  I  looked  at  my  wife :  she 
looked  troubled.  Our  friend — for  he  icaa  friendly— told 
us  there  was  "a  house  on  the  Turkey  Hill  Road,  a  mile  or 
two  ahead ;  but  it  was  a  smart  little  bit  on  the  livcln/  Trace, 
afore  we'd  git  any  place  to  stop."  The  roads  f(  ced  just 
where  we  stood,  and  we  might  choose  either,  to  go  to  St. 
Louis ;  but  some  circumstance  made  it  necessary  for  me  to 
go  through  Kaskaskia. 

"What  shall  we  do,  wife?" 

"I  really  don't  know  what  to  advise.  I  am  afraid  to 
expose  Amy  to  the  hooping-cough,  and  I  am  afraid  to  go 
on  far.     It  will  soon  be  dark." 

I  was  irresolute  and  anxious.  We  would  have  "  timber," 
and  probably  a  stream  to  cross ;  and,  with  my  little  "  dear- 
born," it  mi  ht  be  somewhat  hazardous  in  the  dark.  The 
man  symp  hized  with  us — told  us  we  "  were  welcome  to 
stay,  ef  we  a  mind  to  resk  it  j"  but  then,  if  we  did  stay, 
we  would  b  ve  to  be  huddled  in  the  same  room  with  the 


THE    MISTRUSTED    GUIDE. 


285 


family,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  oi"  "the  childcr"  had 
the  dreaded  disease. 

All  this  while  my  wife  was  sitting  in  the  wagon,  and,  if 
not  liee/jng,  was  sufficiently  cold  to  wish  for  a  good  fire. 
We  had  hardly  observed  another  man  standing  r.c^r,  with 
whom  the  man  of  the  house  had  been  talking.  He  listened 
in  silence  for  a  considerable  time,  but  at  length  spoke. 

"  Ef  you'll  put  up  with  sech  as  I  have — it's  tol'uble  poor 
— you  can  go  to  my  house  and  stay." 

I  looked  now  at  the  speaker,  and  discovered  an  elderly 
man,  in  a  mixed  jeans  hunting-shirt — it  was  not  the  fashion 
to  call  it  a  blouse  then — tied  round  the  waist,  a  'coon-skin 
cap,  and  "  trousers  accordin'."  He  had  a  rifle,  or  an  axe — 
though  I  think  it  was  the  latter — lying  across  his  arm,  and 
looked  wrinkled,  and  rough,  and  all  drawn  up  with  the 
cold.  The  twinkle  of  his  deep-set  eyes  might  be  merry,  or 
it  might  be  sinister.     I  inquired  where  he  lived. 

"  Why,  it's  ray ther  on  the  Turkey  Hill  Road,  and  about  a 
mile  from  t'other;  but  I  can  go  in  the  mornin'  and  show 
you  the  way.  It's  mighty  easy  gittin'  over  from  thar  to 
yon  road." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  his  neighbour  had  not  once  re- 
ferred to  him  to  solve  the  difficulty,  and  I  wondered  why; 
but  he  now  rather  intimated  that  I  might  as  well  take  up 
with  the  old  man's  offer.  I  did  so,  without  consulting  my 
wife's  opinion. 

Ha  trudged  on,  and  I  trudged  after  him,  leading  my 
horse, — which  I  did  much  of  the  way  across  the  State, — 
through  the  snow.  After  a  little  while  I  discovered  that 
we  left  the  road,  and  were  winding  through  a  sort  of  ravine. 


286 


THE    IRIS. 


or  rather  depression  of  the  prairie,  almost  deserving  the 
name  of  valley.  The  snow-covered  ground — the  brown,  or 
bare  bushes — the  bleak,  though  diminutive  hills — all  looked 
cold,  and  wild,  and  dreary.  My  guide  still  trudged  on, 
seldom  looking  round;  and  we  seemed  to  be  travelling 
without  a  road  to  "nowhere."  My  wife  called  me  to  her. 
Her  looks  gave  token  of  alarm. 

"Do  you  think  it  safe  to  go  on  with  that  old  man?  I 
don't  like  his  looks,  and  this  is  a  wild  place.  Hadn't  we 
better  go  back,  or  try  some  other  way?     I  feel  afraid." 

I  laugl'  d  at  her,  but  her  fears  troubled  me.  She  was 
not  given  to  false  alarms;  or,  if  she  ever  felt  them,  she 
never  annoyed  me  with  them.  I  cannot  say  that  I  partici- 
pated in  her  fears  now.  Indeed  I  did  not.  The  old  man 
looked  anything  but  terrible.  I  thought  his  countenance 
mild  rather  than  austere.  Still,  these  backwoodsmen  were 
famous  for  a  quiet  ferociousness  that  could  do  a  brave  or 
terrible  deed  without  the  least  fuss.  I  did  not  know  what 
to  think.  But  what  to  do  seemed  to  admit  of  but  one 
answer — I  must  go  on  with  him,  and  trust  Providence,  who 
had  brought  us  safely  some  fifteen  hundred  miles.  My 
wife  shuddered,  perhaps  trembled,  and  hugged  the  child 
closer;  but  she  submitted  quietly — I  may  say  trustfully. 
She  certainly  gave  liim  no  hint  of  her  fears. 

At  length — for  the  time  did  not  seem  very  short  to  me, 
and  doubtless  stretched  out  much  longer  to  my  wife — but 
at  length,  after  a  long  and  very  gradual  slope  down  a  hol- 
low, such  as  I  have  failed  to  describe,  we  saw  the  habita- 
tion of  our  guide.  It  was  a  cabin  of  the  rudest  sort  and 
smallest  size,  in  what  had  perhaps  in  "  crap  time"  been  an 


THE    MISTRUSTED    GUIDE. 


287 


enclosure  on  the  ascent  of  a  slope  beyond  a  little  wet  weather 
brook.  I  took  notice — for  it  was  an  interestintj  fact  to  me — 
that  for  the  accommodation  of  my  horse  there  was  a  "  rail- 
pen,"  though,  whether  it  was  covered  with  straw,  or 
"  shucks,"  or  prairie  hay,  or  the  cloudy  sky,  I  do  not  now 
remember ;  for  I  have  seen  more  such  many  a  time  since 
then ;  but  there  was  "  cawn"  in  another  rail-pen  close  by. 
So  my  horse  was  supplied.  But  my  wife  and  child  must  be 
got  into  the  house  first ;  and  in  we  went. 

Reader,  in  that  little  dearborn-wagon  was  all  I  had  in 
this  world,  or  of  it ;  and  though,  to  say  the  truth,  all,  ex- 
cept the  wife  and  child,  might  have  been  well  sold  for  a 
very  few  hundred  dollars — and  probably  that  is  an  enor- 
mous over-estimate — ^yet  it  was  precious  to  me,  for  much  of 
tJielr  comfort  depended  on  its  preservation.  And  a  feto  hun- 
dred dollars — nay,  a  few  dollars — would  make  quite  an  ad- 
dition to  the  comforts  of  the  habitation  we  entered,  and  of 
those  who  dwelt  in  it.  There  was  neither  table  nor  chair. 
The  puncheon  floor  was  not  air-tight  nor  a  dead  level.  The 
stick  chimney  and  hearth  were  covered  with  clay ;  but  there 
was  a  fire  in  it.  The  bed — but  we  have  not  got  to  the  bed 
yet. 

I  suppose  it  happened  very  well  that  we  had  our  provi- 
sions with  us,  for  I  saw  no  cooking  nor  anything  to  cook. 
I  forgot  to  say,  that  the  inmates  when  we  arrived  were  a 
boy,  dressed  something  like  his  father,  and  a  girl,  whose 
single  garment — Ave  judged  from  appearances — was  a  home- 
spun cotton  frock,  not  white,  though  I  think  it  had  never 
been  dyed.  Both  were  barefoot.  They  might  be  twelve 
and  fourteen  years  old. 


% 


I  ■•  ■  III  MP  w^^pf^^^T' 


288 


THE    IRIS. 


"  Whar's  yer  mammy  ?" 

"  Mom's  went  over  to  Jake  Smith's ;  and  she  haint  never 
come  home  yit.     I  reckon  she's  agwine  to  stay  all  night." 

I  don't  know  what  made  me  think  so,  but  I  remember  I 
did  rather  surmise  that  it  was  just  as  well  for  us.  iSome- 
tldng  made  me  think  of  a  shrew. 

Presently,  while  my  wife  was  spreading  the  table  (i.  e.  a 
short  bench,  usually  a  seat)  for  our  supper,  I  observed  the 
old  man  seated  on  something,  with  a  plate  on  his  knees, 
plying  his  hunting-knife  on  some  cold  meat  and  com  bread 
for  his.  I  suppose  the  children  had  eaten  before  our  arrival. 
We  had,  I  believe,  our  provision-box  and  an  inverted  half 
bushel  for  seats,  and  ate  our  supper  with  commendable  ap- 
petites ;  for  by  this  time  I  think  my  wife's  fears  were  sensi- 
bly abated.  At  length  bedtime  came,  and  what  should 
be  done  ?  There  was  a  bed,  or  something  like  one,  in  a 
corner,  but  that  would  hardly  accommodate  all  five  of  us 
and  the  baby.  Soon,  however,  that  doubt  was  solved.  The 
girl  spread  a  pallet  on  the  floor,  taking  the  straw  bed  for 
the  purpose ;  and  the  feather  bed — ^}'es,  feather  bed — was 
made  up  on  the  bedstead  for  us.  That  bedstead  would  be 
a  curious  affair,  doubtless,  in  a  Philadelphia  furniture  store. 
I  w  ill  endeavour  to  describe  it.  It  consisted  of  one  post  and 
three  rails ;  or  rather,  what  was  intended  to  correspond  with 
those  parts  of  a  bedstead.  Th<»  post  aforesaid  was  a  round 
pole,  with  the  bark  on,  reaching  from  the  floor  to  the  joist 
or  rafter,  inserted  at  top  and  bottom  into  auger-holes.  At 
a  convenient  height,  a  branch  cut  off  not  quite  close  on  each 
of  two  sides,  formed  a  rest  for  two  of  the  poles  that  served 
for  a  side  and  foot  rail,  the  other  end  being  inserted  in  auger- 


THE    MISTBUSTKI)    GUIDE. 


289 


holes  in  the  logs  which  confliiiuUMl  the  wall  of  the  house.  One 
end  of  the  other  side-rail  ruHUul  on  the  foot-rail.  Across  the 
two  longest  poles,  or  side-railn,  Mplit  clapboards  rested;  and 
on  the  scaffold  thus  formed,  the  Ixjd  was  made.  I  remember 
that  it  was  comparatively  cloan ;  and  the  bedstead  being 
quite  elastic,  and  my  wife's  learn  now  entirely  removed  by 
the  cheerful  consent  of  our  hoHt  to  unite  in  family  devotion, 
we  slept  well  and  soundly;  while  the  family  reposed  no 
doubt  quite  as  sweetly  on  their  ]ku\  on  the  floor. 

After  we  had  breakfasted,  our  host,  for  whom  we  saw  no 
more  preparation  than  on  the  nij^ht  before,  piloted  us  through 
a  grove  of  tall  trees  to  the  KaHkaskia  Koad,  and  pointed  out 
our  course ;  when  we  went  on  our  way  rejoicing,  and  saw 
that  day,  for  the  first  time,  a  hard  of  seven  wild  deer  to- 
gether. 

But  the  old  man  !  What  b(fr;am(!  of  him  ?  Didn't  you 
pay  him  ? 

He  turned  homeward,  and  w<;  saw  him  no  more.     We 
did  pay  him  his  full  charge,  amounting  to  twenty-five  cents ! 
I  do  not  think  my  wife  was  i'.ycr  afraid  of  a  man  after 
that,  because  he  looked  rough  in  his  dress.     As  for  Amy, 
she  had  the  hooping-cough ;  I  don't  remember  how  soon, 
but  she  survived  it ;  and  has  weanr-d  her  eighth  baby. 
Does  the  reader  want  an  apology  for  a  dull  story  ? 
"  Story — God  bless  you,  I  hav<'  non(!  to  tell." 
I  could  have  made  one,  emlMfllished  with  various  incidents ; 
could  have  had  a  rille  pointed,  or  frozen  all  our  hands  and 
feet  at  least,  "or  anything  elw;  that's  agreeable;"  but  it 
would  not  then  have  been,  as  it  is  now,  the  simple  truth. 


tmm^mm^ 


^mm^ 


A  NIGHT  IN  NAZARETH. 

BY  MART  TOUNQ. 

•'But  while  he  thought  on  these  things,  behold,  the  angel  of  the  Lord  appeared  unto  him  in  a 
dream,  saying,  Joseph,  thou  son  of  David,  fear  not  to  take  unto  thee  Mary  thy  wife;  for  that  which  is 
conceived  in  her  is  of  the  Holy  Ghost."— Matthew  i.  20. 

Stern  passions  rose,  and  won  wild  mastery 

In  Joseph's  breast.     He  wandered  darkly  on, 

From  the  calm  fountain  and  the  olive  grove. 

Toward  the  wilderness,  as  he  would  find 

Room  for  the  ocean  tumult  of  his  thoughts. 

Long  had  he  loved  her  with  a  matchless  love. 

Deep  as  his  nature,  truthful  as  his  truth ; 

And  she  was  his — ^by  every  sacred  tie — 

His  own,  espoused ;  though  ever  still  had  dwelt 

On  Mary's  thoughtful  brow  a  chastening  spell. 

That  shamed  to  stillness  all  life's  throbbing  pulses : 

Or,  if  his  words  grew  passion,  there  would  steal 

To  her  large,  azure  eye  a  startled  glance 

Of  sad,  deep  questioning,  and  she  would  turn 

Appealingly  to  heaven,  with  trembling  tears — 

Yet  was  it  she — the  very  same  he  saw. 

Writ  o'er  with  all  the  foul  name  of  a  wanton. 


One  fearful  word  broke  from  the  quivering  lips 
Of  the  young  Hebrew,  as  at  last  alone, 


A    NIGHT    IN    NAZARETH.  291 

By  the  dark  base  of  a  high,  shadowy  rock. 
He  sank  in  agony;  and  then  he  bent 
His  forehead  down  to  the  cool,  mossy  turf, 
And  lay  there  silently.     Light,  creeping  [)laiit». 
And  one  long  spray  of  the  white  thorn  less  rose, 
Stooped  low,  and  swayed  above  him ;  a  sol't  sound 
Of  far,  sweet,  breezy  whisperings  wooed  his  ejir, 
Till  gentler  thoughts  stole  to  him,  and  he  wept. 
Ere  long  his  ear  heard  not :  all  things  around. 
The  present  and  the  past — the  painful  past — 
Became  as  though  they  were  not.     Josepli  lay, 
With  eyes  closed  calmly,  and  a  strange  full  peace 
Breathed  to  his  spirit's  depths ;  for  there  was  one. 
Fairer  and  nobler  than  the  sons  of  earth. 
Bending  in  kindness  o'er  him. 


Calmly  still. 
Although  to  ecstasy  his  being  drnnk. 
The  fathomless,  pure  music  of  the  voice 
Heard  in  that  visioned  hour,  as  once  again 
He  stood  by  the  low  portal  of  the  home 
Of  Mary.     He  passed  in  with  noiseless  stej). 
Through  the  dim  vine-leaves  of  the  lattice 
Not  a  moonbeam  fell,  and  yet  a  softer  ray 
Than  ever  streamed  from  alabaster  lamps, 
Lit  the  white  vesture  and  the  upturned  face 
Of  her  who  knelt  in  meekness  there.     Her  lips 
Were  motionless,  and  the  slight  clasping  hands 
Pressed  lightly  on  her  bosom,  but  a  high 
Seraphic  bliss  spoke  in  the  fervent  hush 

10 


292 


THE    IRIS. 


Of  the  pure,  radiant  features ;  for  she  held 
Unsoiled  communion  with  her  spirit's  lord. 


Slowly  away  faded  that  glorious  trance, 
And  the  white  lids  lifted  as  though  reluctant. 
She  looked  on  Joseph,  and  a  faint,  quick  flush 
Swept  shadowingly  her  forehead.     Woman  still, 
She  felt,  and  painfully,  that  at  the  bar 
Of  manhood's  pride,  earth  had  for  her  no  witness. 
But  the  calm  mien,  and  broad,  uncovered  brow 
Of  Joseph,  told  no  anger.     He  drew  near. 
And  knelt  beside  her ;  and  the  hand  she  gave 
In  greeting  was  pressed  close  and  silently, 
With  reverent  tenderness,  upon  his  ^^art. 


TEARS. 


BY   CIIABLES   D.    GARDETTE,    M.D. 


'Tis  said,  affliction's  deepest  sting 
Some  token  of  its  pain  will  bring 

In  tears  of  bitter  flow  ; 
But  they  who  thus  judge  sorrow's  smart, 
Know  not  the  pang  that  wrings  the  heart. 

With  withering  tearless  woe ! 


^.: 


The  scorching  grief  that  blasts  the  fount. 
And  dries  its  tears,  ere  yet  they  mount, 

To  soothe  the  burning  eye ; 
That  speeds  the  blood  with  torrent  force 
Through  every  bursting  vein  to  course, 

Yet  leave  each  life-track  dry ! 


The  grief  that  binds  with  rankling  chain 
Each  feeling  of  the  heart  and  brain. 

Save  sternness  and  despair ; 
And  crushes  with  relentless  hand 
Each  hope  religion's  trust  had  planned, 

Planting  rebellion  there ! 


294  THE    IRIS. 

Such  grief,  not  one  of  these  have  known. 
Who  say  that  flowing  tears  alone 

Proclaim  the  bosom's  throes ! 
Tears  are  the  tokens  God  designed 
For  lighter  griefs  of  heart  and  mind, 

Such  as  pure  child-life  knows ; 


And  therefore,  hath  He  so  ordained 
That  infant-tears  be  not  restrained, 

But  lightly  caused  to  flow. 
That  these,  who  cannot  tell  their  grief, 
Shall  find  in  weeping,  such  relief 

As  manhood  may  not  know ! 


INCONSTANCY 


KY  K.  JI. 


They  told  me  he'd  forsake  me ;  tliat  tlie  words 

With  which  he  charmed  my  very  soul  away 

Were  like  the  hollow  music  of  a  shell, 

That  learns  to  mock  the  ocean's  deeper  voice. 

For  he  had  listened  to  love's  tones,  until 

His  ear  and  lip,  though  not  his  heart,  had  grown 

Familiar  with  their  melody.     Nay,  more, — 

They  said  his  very  boyhood  had  been  marked 

By  worse  than  a  boy's  follies ;  that  in  youth, 

The  season  of  high  hopes,  when  lesser  men 

Put  on  their  manhood,  as  a  monarch's  heir 

Rich  robes  and  royalty,  his  poor  ambition 

Asked  but  new  charms  and  pleasures ;  newer  love: 

New  lips  to  smile  until  their  sweetness  palled. 

And  softer  hands  to  clasp  his  own,  until 

He  wearied  even  of  so  light  a  fetter. 

Thus  did  they  pluck  me  from  him,  but  in  vain  ; 

For  when  did  warning  stay  a  wonum's  heart  ? 

I  knew  all  this,  and  yet  I  trusted  him. 

Yea,  with  a  child's  blind  faith  I  gave  my  fate 

Into  his  hands,  content  that  he  should  know 

How  absolute  his  power  and  my  w^eakness. 


■"Fl" 


296 


THE    IRIS. 


Speak  not  of  pride,  I  never  felt  its  lash. 
There  is  no  place  for  fallen  Lucifer 
In  the  pure  heaven  of  a  sinless  love. 
And  when  he  left  me,  as  they  said  he  would, 
My  spirit  had  no  room  for  aught  save  grief. 
Giving  the  lie  to  my  own  conscious  heart, 
I  taxed  stern  truth  with  falsehood  to  the  last. 
But  when  to  doubt  was  madness,  when,  perforce. 
Even  from  my  credulous  eyes  the  scales  were  fallen. 
What  was  the  cold  scorn  of  a  thousand  worlds 
To  the  one  thought,  that  for  a  counterfeit 
I'd  staked  my  woman's  all  of  love — and  lost  I 


CROSSING  THE  TIDE. 

BY   MISS   riKEnE    CARF.Y. 

Fainter,  fainter,  all  the  while 
On  us  beams  her  patient  smile ; 
Brighter  as  each  day  returns. 
In  her  cheek  the  crimson  burns ; 
And  her  tearful,  fond  caress 
Hath  more  loving  tenderness, — 
Saviour,  Saviour,  unto  lier 
Draw  thou  near,  and  minister! 

And  when  on  the  crumbling  sand 
Of  life's  shore  her  feet  shall  stand ; 
When  the  death-stream's  moaning  surge 
Sings  for  her  its  solemn  dirge. 
And  our  earthly  love  would  shrink, 
Trembling,  backward  from  the  brink, 
Saviour,  Saviour,  take  her  hand, 
That  her  feet  may  safely  stand ! 


Firmly  hold  it  in  thine  own, 
Gently^  gontly  lead  her  down ; 
And  when  o'er  the  solemn  sea 
Safely  she  shall  walk  with  thee. 


298 


THE    IRIS. 


Nearing  to  that  other  shore, 
Whence  a  voice  hath  called  her  o'er 
Saviour,  Saviour,  from  the  tide. 
Aid  her  up  the  heavenly  side  ! 

Lead  her  on  that  burning  way, 
Brighter  than  the  path  of  day, 
Where  a  thousand  saints  have  trod 
To  the  city  of  our  God  ; 
Where  a  thousand  martyrs  came 
Shining  on  a  path  of  flame ; 
Saviour,  till  her  wanderings  cease 
On  the  eternal  hills  of  peace. 


THE    END. 


